


The Memory Game -- A Mass Effect Fantasy

by FlytsOfAngels



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 66,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8412169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlytsOfAngels/pseuds/FlytsOfAngels
Summary: In the years before Commander Shepherd rose to fame among the Citadel races, there were other threats to the peace and stability of the fragile alliances of the universe.  Quoyah Faha, a Drell agent for the Hanar, suddenly finds himself in the middle of a mystery, starting with the death of the Asari prostitute that he met for a drink in a back-alley bar on the Citadel.  While following the leads that he is able to gather -- in part by using his remarkable eidetic memory -- he gathers a unique group of individuals around him, all working toward the goal of solving the mystery of the gang war that led to the prostitute's death and the disappearance of a Salarian geneticist.
_________________________
Longer sections of italics are eidetic memories of the main character.  The idea of the Drell's eidetic memory fascinates me, especially if the individual has the ability to choose what is shared with the people hearing the story, which is never actually clear in the game.  I also was challenging myself to write in present tense.
Comments always welcome ...





	1. Chapter 1

He lifts a hand and presses it to his forehead, wondering idly where this ache started and why it continues. Squeezing his eyes more tightly together, he tries to will the pain away, but it seems that it cannot leave him alone. He resigns himself to the need to open his eyes, to understand where he is, and slips the two sets of his eyelids apart. An institutional-looking ceiling stares back at him, clean white, but speckled with random holes that make no pattern that he can discern. Carefully turning his head — which aches more when he tries to move his neck — he looks over at the force field that divides him from the Turians who obviously have been set as his guards. They are ignoring him, staring at their monitors and chatting with each other. He tries to catch a bit of their conversation, but their voices are muffled by distance and the ominous crackle of the protective grid that will keep him imprisoned until the Turians choose to release him. He breathes in deeply and looks back up at the ceiling.

Perhaps, if he tries, he can remember …

_Her eyes stare back into his, inviting in the way that only a professional prostitute’s can — welcoming and stand-offish at the exact same moment. Stretching a hand out toward him, she gently lays it on the back of one of his where it is resting on the top of the table in one of the less popular bars in the Citadel. She tips her head to one side, smiling gently at something that he says, asking whether he wouldn’t like to take her some place more private. He shakes his head briefly, lifting the half-full glass to his lips and taking a small sip._

_It gives him a chance to study her face again, trying to understand why he suddenly feels the need for companionship and why he has chosen her from all of the prospective offerings of the service that he uses when he is at the Citadel. But there was something about the Asari woman’s vid, and now he knows what it is: the slightly aqua tinge to her skin reminds him of the blue-green eyes of that other woman, that beautiful woman who had captivated him so long ago. He studies the crystalline blue of the Asari’s eyes for a moment longer and quickly downs the rest of his drink._

_He hears the whine of a blast rifle somewhere in the bar but ignores it: it isn’t his assignment, so it isn’t his responsibility. But the woman across from him tenses and rises to her feet, staring toward the front doors with a look of frightened surprise on her face. He reaches up to pull her back into her seat when a pulse from someone’s biotics throws her against the wall behind their little table. Hearing the telltale crunch of bones shattering into thousands of pieces, he rises and propels himself without even thinking toward the two groups who are setting up barricades with the tables. Slipping across the surface of the bar, he grabs the closest bottles of alcohol, flinging one at the man with the rifle and another at a Batarian who is raising his pistol. The gun falls from his hand when the container strikes just above his wrist, and a look of shock passes through his four eyes. Slipping down behind the counter, he smiles grimly and reaches for two more bottles._

_The front doors are opening when he finds a long piece of pipe near the credit kiosk and slips it into his belt. Again, he propels himself over the bar, smashing one of his bottles across the forehead of the alien to his left, watching out of the corner of his eye as she crumples to the floor. Using the toe of his boot, he catches the edge of one overturned table and kicks it toward two armed Batarians, sending them scurrying out of the way. He notices that there are members of C-Sec, the Citadel’s peacekeeping force, moving into the room, but a human has focused on him. From his stance and eyepiece, he knows that the man is the one responsible for the biotic pulse that sent his companion into the wall with lethal effect. He drops to one knee, tossing his last bottle to shatter near the man’s boots and tugging the pipe from his belt. He sees the man slip in the wet that pools under his feet and uses the distraction to swing his pipe into the side of his opponent’s skull. The crunch of metal against bone is satisfying, and he rises so that he can determine whether there is another threat._

_And feels the butt of one of the peacekeeper’s rifles against the back of …_

That explains the aching in his head, he realizes, gently probing with his long fingers until he finds the bump that lingers on his skull. When he finally understands that his scaled skin has not been broken, he sighs and crosses his hands on his chest. The dots on the ceiling attract his attention again, but there still is no sense that he can make of the random disorder of their placement or size. He lets his eyes slide shut, both sets of lids completely blocking the artificial light from the overhead fixture.

He hears the scuffling outside his cell before anyone speaks to him, but he keeps his eyes closed until he feels someone touch his shoulder. Looking up at the Citadel Security officer — “C-Sec” for those used to the intricacies of life on the large space station and diplomatic community — he is surprised to see that a female Turian is staring down at him. The portion of her body that isn’t encased in her uniform shines light grey in the light from the overhead fixtures, and he notices that her long face is marked with two, dark jagged stripes that run from the short crest on her head to the edges of the mandibles that frame her mouth. He waits, unwilling to volunteer anything to the authorities, knowing that his eidetic memory will provide them with enough information to put all the pieces of the confrontation together and possibly convict anyone who is still alive. If they ask, they can trigger him to recount the events of the bar fight in minute detail, and they will think that they know everything.

But they will be wrong.

Yes, he is like all other Drell, who evolved long ago on their desert planet of Rakhana with detailed memories — eidetic memories — so that they could more accurately convey to other members of their tribe the exact location of the resources that they needed to survive. Today, with their planet destroyed by over-industrialization and their population severely diminished, the memory of the Drell is seen more as an anomaly among the races who frequent the Citadel.

But he is also not like other Drell: usually when the eidetic memory is triggered, the male or female has no control over what they say or how they say it. Their information is delivered steadily and to whatever level of detail that the Drell has observed it; the Drell has no control over what he or she relates back to those who are asking the questions. On the other hand, he has learned — somehow — to edit what he says to those seeking for information. It seems almost like he is watching a recording of the situation, but then commenting upon it a few moments after he has observed the action: unlike most Drell, who speak in conjunction with the events that they are reliving.

No one knows that he has broken the involuntary, fugue-like state that the Drell enter when they recall their memories. No one needs to know.

Including these C-Sec officers.

She is staring down at him, her two, gloved fingers running nervously up and down the edge of her holstered pistol. While she examines him, he studies her, noting the light grey tone of her metallic carapace and the yellow-orange glow of her irises, framed by long, black slashes of softer skin. Her uniform clings to the tall frame, the knees that bend in the opposite direction from humanoids, the broad shoulders and chest. She seems to be trying to find something in his face, but he has no idea what it can be. Rolling to his side, he props himself on one elbow, his hand automatically going to the welt on the back of his head and gently rubbing against the abused flesh.

“Sorry about that,” she says, watching his hand come away from the bruise. “The men weren’t certain who was on which side of the fight, so they just took out anyone who looked threatening. The bartender told us that you weren’t involved, so we’re going to release you.”

“I appreciate that,” he replies, rising to his feet. He steps toward the door, but she reactivates the energy field that is meant to keep him in the cell. Looking over his shoulder at her, he sees the little shake of her head and steps back toward the bed, closer to her.

“We still want to ask you some questions about the incident, of course,” she says, “and they want me to make sure that you’re willing to give a statement before I take you to the interrogation room.”

“I am always happy to help the peacekeepers on the Citadel,” he says, crossing his arms on his chest. “I have nothing to hide from C-Sec.”

“Okay,” she says slowly, as if she doubts that he is being completely honest with her. “I’m Lieutenant Usi Erocas, by the way. They told me that you hadn’t awakened until now, so there was no way that I could introduce myself.”

“Or release me, obviously,” he replies. “It appears that the men under your command may not know their own strength.”

If a Turian could frown, she would; instead, he sees the black area around her eyes suffuse with blue, turning slowly to a navy color, like a blush rising in a humanoid’s cheeks. He mentally notes the change in her face, knowing that he can replay the memory to learn whether he recalls any other details before or after that moment.

“Look,” she says, crossing to the barrier, “there’s nothing that I can do to make up for the blow to you head. And I can’t tell my men that they should be more gentle with people on either side of a turf war.”

He nods, but Lieutenant Erocas is still studying him, as if she can determine something about the information that he can share with them simply by learning the patterning of the scales on his face. Staring at the wall behind her shoulder, he shifts from foot to foot and waits. There is nothing else that he can do. She is the one in control in this situation.

“All right. Well,” she says, walking to the electronic barricade and motioning for someone on the other side to deactivate it. “If you come with me, I can get you settled in the interrogation room, and then we’ll be able to start.”

He follows quietly behind her while she leads him through the hallways of the security station in this portion of the Citadel. From the closed feeling of the space, he knows that it is one of the smaller outposts: any place where temporary guests or politicians could visit is kept spacious and inviting. But where the normal residents or criminals interact with C-Sec, the space is as small and as basic as is necessary. He doesn’t stop or slow his pace unless she does, trying to seem respectful of the officials around him. But he knows that there is really little that they can do to stem the illegal trade and gang wars that boil just under the surface of the facade of civility and universal togetherness that the planets have attempted to create here on this mechanical hulk floating in space. They are figureheads, a placebo to quell the fears of those who feel that everything is beyond an individual’s control.

He doesn’t feel that way, but he can’t let his disrespect show. It can only lead to bad things.

She opens the door to another small room, and he quickly notes the lenses and sensors of the monitoring and recording devices that the peacekeepers think that they have concealed in the room. When she motions toward a chair on the far side of a utilitarian table, he slips into it, resting his elbows on the surface in front of him. Folding his hands across each other, he lets his inner eyelids slip together, side to side, just to remind the peacekeepers who they are interrogating. Lieutenant Usi Erocas closes the door behind her, leaving him alone under the harsh, artificial lights.

He doesn’t have long to wait until she returns in the company of a male Turian who is wearing the insignia of a higher-ranking officer, albeit one from another department of C-Sec than simply Security. Tipping his head to one side, he waits silently until the male settles into his own chair, watching as he arranges his datapad on the table between them. When he has finished with his tools, the Turian presses the screen and begins talking for the device to record.

“Investigator Saren Arterius, interrogation for case number 3479-Theta,” the male Turian says in a crisply official-sounding voice. “State your name for the record, please.”

“Quoyah Faha,” he replies softly.

“I’m sorry,” Arterius says, leaning forward slightly so that he can look at the screen of his datapad. “That didn’t quite register on my recorder. Could you speak a little more loudly, sir?”

“Quoyah Faha.”

“Your race and occupation, please.”

“Drell,” he says. “Mercenary of the Hanar.”

“Are you on assignment at the moment?”

Quoyah shakes his head, and he can see the stripes around Lieutenant Erocas’s eyes shift to navy blue. Obviously, he has made a mistake, and he looks over at the Investigator, his four eyelids closing — horizontally and then vertically — but the Turian is tapping on his datapad’s screen.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Arterius comments. “I know that you know we have cameras throughout this interrogation room, but I would prefer for you to answer my questions verbally, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Investigator,” he answers, “anything to help C-Sec. I am not on assignment for the Hanar at the moment. They have given me a period of leave after the completion of my last mission.”

“Thank you. And can you tell us why you were in the bar the night of the incident?”

“To meet a female. By professional arrangement.”

“The Asari who was crushed by one of the assailant’s biotics?”

“Yes.” He unfolds his hands and tugs at the cuff of his jacket. For some reason, he doesn’t want to speak of her, but he knows that they will ask. He thinks back to what he has remembered a few minutes ago, but he is uncertain what there is to edit from his description of the events in the bar. Glancing over at Lieutenant Erocas, he sees that she has moved away from the table and is leaning against the wall beside the door. Idly, he wonders why she is still here, but he is certain that he will learn the answer to his question in due time.

“So, Quoyah Faha,” Arterius says, his fingers sliding across his datapad. “Can you please give us your version of the events, as you remember them?”

He feels when the memories are triggered, a little shift to the side that his mind takes when forced into its eidetic recall. He begins to speak, _“Her eyes stare back into mine, inviting …”_


	2. Chapter 2

_“The butt of a C-Sec rifle strikes the back of my head …”_ Quoyah finishes, feeling the compulsion to relate the events slip away from him like sand sliding between his fingers. He knows that he has not shared everything with the officers of C-Sec, but there are details that he needs to hold back for himself. The desperation in the Asari woman’s voice when she asks him to take her to his room. And the thought that passes through his mind again that her skin is the same aqua as that other woman’s eyes. These are details that the peacekeepers do not need to complete their investigation. And there are others that they *do** need, but those are for him.

For his vengeance. 

He can’t quite understand why he feels the need to hunt down those who sent their gangs into the bar to fight their war, but he knows that he will do it. For the woman who had been with him, in the wrong place at the wrong time. And for justice.

Because he cannot be certain that C-Sec will succeed in their investigation.

He blinks slowly, reluctantly letting his eyes reopen to the glare from the overhead lights. Raising one hand to his mouth, he coughs loudly, more as a way to distract the C-Sec officers from their investigation than because his throat is dry. But he has learned that showing any signs of physical distress will encourage one of the officers to offer him a sign of sympathy — not that he needs it — and that it will take one of them away.

Even a brief moment to spend with the impressions that his memories leave is welcome.

Lieutenant Erocas levers away from the wall and takes a step closer to the table. “Are you okay?” she asks, staring down at him with her orange eyes. “Would you like something to drink?”

He is about to answer when the other Turian interrupts. “He doesn’t need anything to drink, Lieutenant,” he says. “He’s Drell, remember? Anything they drink is specifically designed to purge their bodies of water content, and we don’t keep that kind of stuff in C-Sec. Besides, it’s highly unlikely that Quoyah Faha has anything wrong with his throat, considering how well-built a Drell’s neck is.”

Quoyah wonders whether he has underestimated the Turian across the table from him and studies the face more closely. Most people on the Citadel know that the Drell suffer from the destruction of their planet — being relocated to the humid home-world of the Hanar triggered a disease called Kepral’s Syndrome in many of his race, a debilitating, slow death from erosion by moisture in the lungs. But fewer know that the Drell physiology includes an inflatable sac in the throat that makes the neck stronger than most other humanoids.

He will have to be more careful with this Turian.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he says quickly, “but no drink will be necessary. Do you have all of the information that you need, Investigator Arterius?”

The Turian looks down at this datapad and skims through his files. “Not quite,” he replies. “Are you certain that you don’t have any details on the kidnapping that took place during the gun battle?”

His eyelids slide closed — inner, then outer — and then open again, and he meets the steady gaze from Saren Arterius. “No,” he answers honestly, “I have no knowledge of a kidnapping taking place in the bar that evening. Are you certain it happened simultaneously with the shooting?”

Arterius spins his datapad on the tabletop and presses a button on the screen. In moments, he is watching the recorded data stream from a security camera, angled from behind the bar toward the front doors. He is grateful that the seats that he shared with his assignation for that evening are not visible on the recording, and he stares with at least casual interest in the events unfolding on the screen. Seeing himself slide across the bar, he drags his eyes away from the action and focuses on the shadows near the doorway. There are no particular shapes that he can identify in the grainy blur until the brilliant glow from the signs outside of the bar illuminate the gap when the doors open. One of the humanoids — the one walking away between two hefty-looking individuals — is obviously a Salarian: he can tell by the strange, drooping appendages that would be called “horns” on a more aggressive species. The Salarian seems to be arguing with the abductors, but the sounds of the battle between the two factions of the supposed gang war overwhelm the recording. His image sliding across the bar top again catches his attention, and he idly analyzes how the C-Sec officer was able to come up behind him and strike him with his weapon.

Just before the butt of the rifle hits, he looks up at Lieutenant Erocas, seeing her wince when it strikes him, even though she is viewing the recording upside down. He wonders at her reaction, surprised that a C-Sec officer would care how someone who would become a prisoner would be treated. Criminals don’t merit compassion in his experience, and if these officers knew some of the missions that the Hanar had sent him on, they would have restrained his hands by binding them to the table in front of him. Her gaze rises to meet his before he can look away, and he sees that blue flush rise in the area around her eyes, causing her irises to glow more brightly orange. Making a little motion with one of his hands, he hopes that she understands that he is dismissing the actions of the C-Sec squad, that he forgives her for the pain that he has felt. Or, if she doesn’t, that she might give him a chance to explain later. When his interrogation is finished.

If Saren Arterius ever believes that he has all the information that he needs.

“You had no awareness of this taking place?” the Turian asks, leaning toward him across the table. “You didn’t see a single thing that seemed unusual in the bar that night? Hear anything out of the ordinary?”

His dual eyelids slide shut, and he rests for a moment in the darkness that surrounds him. Knowing that he has little to satisfy the Turian investigator, he allows the fugue state to take him again, replaying the minutes in the bar until he catches sight of something on the back of one of the kidnapper’s uniforms. Without comment, he studies it, continuing to relate the events of the bar fight as closely to the retelling that he has already given as is possible. The insignia may be nothing, and it is as easy for him to try to determine its meaning as it is for C-Sec. Perhaps easier, considering that he works hard to maintain his neutrality with most of the factions that patrol their hallways in the Citadel.

When he has finished his recitation, he opens both eyes and stares into the investigator’s face. Reading a Turian’s expression is difficult at best — their metal-imbued carapace makes it nearly impossible. But there is that area around the eyes, that one that changes color in unexpected ways. He watches as Arterius rotates the datapad back to face him and records some comments with swift taps of his two, long fingers. It seems to him that the dark area around the investigator’s eyes has become almost gray, as if the blood has drained from that area. Arterius is not happy to have to deliver news of his failure to gather additional information to his higher-ups. But it is never easy to admit failure or defeat.

Perhaps he can soften the blow.

“There was one thing,” he says, waving his hand toward Arterius’s datapad. When the Turian nods, he drags it across the table and finds a program that will allow him to draw what he has seen. Tracing with the tip of one finger, he roughly outlines the shape of the insignia that he recalls, leaving out one or two key attributes. When he is finished, he returns the datapad to the investigator. “I recall this design on the back of one of the abductor’s jackets. I cannot connect it to anyone or any organization that I know …”

“You just leave that to us,” Arterius says, rising to his feet and practically snatching the datapad off the table. “Thank you for your help, Quoyah Faha. Lieutenant Erocas will escort you to the exit.”

He nods and watches Saren Arterius hustle from the room, certainly eager to share what appears to be a lead with the other members of his C-Sec team. Usi Erocas stares after the investigator for a moment and then turns to look at him. Nervously, she taps her fingers on the table and then she shrugs.

“I guess your interrogation is over,” she says, stepping toward the door. “If you’ll follow me …”

She pulls the door open and looks back at him. Considering her face for a long moment, he levers himself out of the chair and walks with her through the narrow hallways to a small storage room near the cell where he had been kept until he awoke. Lieutenant Erocas collects his things and hands them to him; he easily stows and straps them on and walks with her to the front doors of the C-Sec station. When she passes through them into the darker hallways of the Citadel, he looks after her in surprise and then easily falls in beside her.

“I appreciate your escort, Lieutenant,” he says quietly, “but it is unnecessary. I am completely able to take care of myself.”

She shakes her head and replies, “I know that. Stars, every person on the Citadel probably knows that. But Investigator Arterius insisted that I walk you to your rooms. He told me that you need to know that we’re watching you.”

He shrugs. “This is the Citadel. Everyone is under the watchful eye of C-Sec.”

Reaching out, she grabs his arm and pulls him to a stop. Using her size to her advantage, she presses him back from the flow of traffic and stares down into his face. “You don’t understand,” she hisses at him. “They’re watching you. Specifically. And the order to monitor your actions hasn’t come from anyone that’s in my chain of command.”

He nods slightly and uses her grip on his arm to propel her back into the leisurely flow of foot traffic in the companionway. If they truly are monitoring him, then he cannot appear to be doing anything out of the ordinary, at any time. And it certainly can’t appear that Lieutenant Usi Erocas is warning him. He looks around at the faces that are passing — Turian, Salarian, Asari, even the new human faces that are so unlike anything that he has ever seen and so like many others — but they all seem to be ignoring him and the C-Sec officer. Turning his head slightly, he looks over at his Turian escort, even more curious about her motivations now.

“Why?” he asks, still in that soft voice.

She steps to one side to avoid a group of small, bio-suited Volus who are chattering together and completely ignoring anyone else around them. Using the length of her backward bending legs, she swiftly catches up with him and mutters, “What? What did you say?”

“Why are you warning me, Lieutenant Usi Erocas?”

He sees the little shake of her head and continues walking. Perhaps, when they have reached the relative isolation and security of his rooms in the Citadel, she will speak more openly with him. Without slowing his pace, he almost mechanically follows the hallways back to his quarters, the tiny rooms that he has maintained here since the Hanar selected him to serve the obligations of the Compact — the unwritten covenant between the rescuer and the rescued, the Hanar and the Drell. In order to fulfill the blood debt that his people feel, he will eagerly take up the tasks that are beyond the capabilities of the invertebrate, multi-pedal, and basically peaceful creatures.

Activating the sensor that allows him access to his rooms, he gestures to invite Erocas to join him, and she enters and stops just inside the opening. He casually travels through the small, uncluttered space until he reaches the desk where his personal datapad is resting. He awakens the screen and presses a code, activating a security program that he has installed in the memory. When it is running, it will scramble anything that the audio surveillance records. It’s not enough to keep C-Sec away, and they will come to examine their hidden cameras. But it will give him these brief moments of privacy with Lieutenant Usi Erocas.

He turns to face her, studying the long shape of her where she is leaning against the wall just inside his doorway. Hoping to understand why she has followed him, he says, “My space is secure. You may speak freely, Lieutenant Erocas.”

The dark stripes around her eyes flush to navy, and he can see that she drops her chin toward her chest. For a long moment, she simply stands there, and he waits. There is nothing that he can do for her now; he has done all that he can — offered her safe haven and the security to speak with him, if that is what she wishes. He must wait.

Finally, she takes in a deep breath. “There’s something wrong in C-Sec,” she says, “and I think that you are the only one who can help me with it.”


	3. Chapter 3

He blinks with both sets of his eyelids and stares at her, trying to understand what she is saying to him. Unfortunately, she continues to stare at the floor at her feet, and she seems less and less likely to continue explaining herself. He can feel something stirring inside of him, a throbbing combination of frustration and impatience that makes him want to simply escort the C-Sec officer from his rooms. There is nothing that he can do for the peacekeepers; he has no obligation to them or to the stability of the people gathered in the Citadel. His life is dedicated to fulfilling the Compact and to completing those tasks that the Hanar cannot complete themselves.

Perhaps it is time for him to return home and wait there for another assignment.

“If you will forgive me, Lieutenant,” he wonders aloud, “do you not have a partner to help you with your investigation? Can you not assign men from your command …?”

Finally, she looks up at him. “If there’s something wrong in C-Sec, you actually think that it’s safe to ask its officers to investigate?”

He nods slightly. “I apologize. I have not thought your accusation through.”

“It’s all I’ve thought about since I was moved into the back passages,” she admits, her hands running up and down her long arms as if she is cold. “I’ve been trying to figure out why I was transferred here, what I said or what I did to …”

“This is about your being unhappy in your job, Lieutenant?” he asks, pretending to pick a speck of dust from the sleeve of his jacket. “Are you working some kind of vendetta against C-Sec because you have been demoted?”

The navy flush burns around her eyes, and he can see her body tighten as if she is preparing to leap forward. He watches cautiously, knowing that he has said the wrong thing, that he has stepped across some invisible barrier that exists between them. But there is nothing that he can do about it, just as there is nothing that he can do to help her. She levers away from the wall, taking a half step toward him, her hand unconsciously going to the weapon at her hip. Watching her move, he sighs gently to himself and tenses his muscles, ready to leap away from her next action if it becomes necessary. He knows that he can have his own, concealed weapon in his hand moments after she has attacked him; so he waits, tense but patient, to see what will happen next.

He is surprised when she stops her forward motion and turns her back to him. It seems to him that Lieutenant Erocas reluctantly forces her hand away from her weapon, and he hears her inhale deeply as if she is trying to calm the anger that he is certain she feels. Idly, he wonders how far he can push her before the facade of her patience snaps away, revealing the burning of her rage to the universe. He appreciates the fact that she has succeeded — more than once since he has been in her presence — to regain her iron-hard grip on her emotions. There is something admirable in her control, but he can feel a little stirring of anticipation at seeing her step just one, small step into the world without her practiced exterior. Like seeing a Quarian without his or her bio-suit.

Or a Turian without his or her mineral-encrusted exoskeleton.

“I guess I was wrong,” she is saying softly, still facing away from him, still seething with tension that he can see in her broad shoulders. “I should be going.”

He waits for the tell-tale _swoosh_ that means that his door has opened and closed behind the C-Sec officer’s retreating form, but she simply stands there with her back to him. Trying to ignore the towering form of the Turian in his doorway, he moves to his small food storage area, realizing that he hasn’t eaten since before he left to meet the Asari the previous evening. He looks over his shoulder at Lieutenant Erocas and sighs. It appears to him that the only way he will get her to leave him alone is if he gives her the chance to speak her mind; he resigns himself to her presence and turns to talk to her again.

“Lieutenant,” he says, “I have very little to offer you in the way of refreshment, but if you would like to take a seat, I will do the best that I can.”

She waves her hand vaguely and turns toward him. “The strongest thing that you have to drink will be fine,” she replies, crossing to a tall stool at the counter near him. He realizes that it is the only seating in the room that will accommodate her anatomy — the knees that bend in the opposite direction from his own would make it difficult for her to sit anywhere else.

Reaching for a dusty bottle of Spacer’s Swill that he has carried with him for more years that he cares to remember, he spills some into a glass for each of them. Sliding it in front of the C-Sec officer, he watches as she swallows the entire contents with one toss of her head, snapping the glass back onto the counter with a sharp sound that makes him wince slightly. Tipping the bottle, he pours her another drink and waits.

“I wouldn’t be so suspicious,” she finally begins, “if they hadn’t transferred me to the back corridors when they did.”

“It is not a reward for excellent service, then?” He sips from his drink, enjoying the burning sensation that the alcohol causes in his throat.

Usi shakes her head. “They tried to tell me that it’s a promotion, that being in command of my own squad was an honor for someone so young. And so female.” He sees the navy flush around her eyes, knowing from it that she is angry at the way she has been treated by the peacekeepers.

“I cannot remember seeing a great number of female Turians among the ranks of C-Sec officers, Lieutenant Erocas. You are unique among your species, indeed.” He smiles to himself when he sees the area around her eyes turn even more darkly blue with her embarrassed pleasure. When she meets his eyes, he grins gently at her and raises his glass in a silent toast. Quickly, she drops her gaze back to the drink on the counter in front of her.

“You’re awfully smooth,” she says, one of the three digits on her hand slipping along the slick surface of her glass. “Is it a Drell thing? Or do you just use it to deflect suspicion from yourself?”

He blinks, studying the top of her downturned head and wondering whether Lieutenant Erocas will meet his every comment with so much distrust and thinly veiled hostility. Considering her years in C-Sec, he understands why she would treat many of the criminals that she has interrogated with suspicion, but she has come to *him** with her concerns.

“I understand that many Drell find it difficult to interact with other species,” he replies slowly. “The power of our memories can overwhelm us so completely that we even experience the emotions of those moments; however, most individuals find our recitation monotonous and clinical. It is not that we do not feel, Lieutenant. It is simply that the emotion is not usually necessary to the relaying of information. Perhaps it is this that makes us appear detached and … smooth.”

She shakes her head. “It wasn’t that, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. Yes, I am unique among Turians and at C-Sec. Not many females choose the military for longer than their required years of service, and very few choose security, either on- or off-world. I just couldn’t see myself spending the rest of my days in the same place where they had started. There’s too much universe …”

She turns her head to stare out the large window that is one of the reasons he has chosen these rooms, and he follows the line of her gaze. Politicians of the Citadel prefer a view of the artificial gardens that are suspended in the central column between the layers of the structure, and most residents are too poor to afford anything with any type of window at all. He feels lucky to find a space that is close enough to a power generating station to have a naturally higher temperature, which he needs for his specific physiology, and the remarkable view of the expanse of stars on the other side of the walls of the space station. He knows that it may not be in his best interest to maintain the rooms on the Citadel or that it may be beyond his means some day, but for now, he enjoys his comfort and his view.

Erocas turns her head to meet his gaze and finally continues with her concerns. “The thing is: I was really close to something at my old posting. I could feel it. I had found evidence of influence peddling among the leaders of the factions on the Citadel, and then …”

She pauses and inhales deeply, her fingers trailing along the sides of her glass again. Quoyah watches her but remains silent.

“Then my findings were wiped from the C-Sec computers, and …”

“And you were sent to the back corridors of the Citadel,” he finishes for her and sees her nod her agreement. He tips his drink down his throat, satisfied at last that he cannot help the C-Sec officer with the problems that she has uncovered among the races that make up the galactic government housed in the great space station. He has no responsibility to anyone except the Hanar, and he knows that those peaceful creatures are no threat to the stability of the relationships among the species who have attained spaceflight and mastered the use of the mass relays. Turning away from Lieutenant Erocas, he replaces the bottle on a shelf and slides his glass toward the sanitizer, swiftly returning his space to the clean order that he demands of it. He is about to face his guest again when he senses her beside him and sees her hand reach over his shoulder to place her glass next to his own.

“I know it doesn’t seem like anything,” she says softly, “and I can’t show you any of my evidence. I had hoped that I could just get you to trust my judgement on this, but I’m not certain that I managed to do that either.”

He leans one hip against the counter, and she mirrors his action, crossing her arms over her chest, her yellow-orange eyes staring down at him. He can tell that she is waiting for him to say something, for the rejection that will confirm in her mind that there was a reasonable justification for sending her down into the bowels of the Citadel to chase after gang members, crime lords, and illicit drug dealers. There’s a level of danger to the assignment that makes him doubt that it is a random posting, and the decreased level of her personal safety helps him understand that there may have been something to her investigations after all. But still, it does not help him find the gang members who killed the Asari who had been pulverized against the wall in the bar, and he still has his obligation to the Hanar. He cannot commit to help her, and he feels a deep sense of regret that he must tell her so.

“Before you say anything else,” she says suddenly, stopping him from uttering the rejection that was forming on his lips, “there’s something that you probably should know. They’ve taken my squad from me and put me on a special assignment.”

Blinking slowly, he studies her face, a creeping sense of dread filling him. “Go on,” he says cautiously.

“They want you watched. C-Sec or whoever it is who thinks that you know more than you’re telling the investigator.”

He nods slightly, and she sighs deeply.

“And they’ve told me to do it.”


	4. Chapter 4

Pushing through the species gathered in one of the less reputable marketplaces in the back corridors of the Citadel, he studies the crowd that is milling in front of the stall belonging to a team of Volus merchants who specialize in exacting replicas of Turian weaponry and armor. The everyday stuff, of course. Most of the environmental-suited species is willing to simply replicate the useful function of the armaments that they manufacture. There is nothing among their creations to attract his attention or his credits, but he continues toward the stall in any event, his eyes studying the shadows at the back of the booth.

When he is certain that the individual that he is seeking is there, he pauses and quickly scans the rest of the crowd. He knows that _she_ is there, somewhere in the shadows: Lieutenant Usi Erocas. His permanent tail, courtesy of C-Sec. Catching a glimpse of her tall figure, he quickly looks away, preferring the game that they have been playing for the last few days. Whenever he leaves his rooms, she is with him, always at a distance, but a presence that he cannot ignore or seem to lose, now matter how hard he tries. And in the beginning, he did try. Today, he has resigned himself to the fact that she will be with him, as long as he continues to follow the leads that he can uncover on the Citadel. Perhaps, when he has completed his vengeance on the gangs, he will be able to distance himself from the space station again and then she will be gone.

One of the squat Volus identifies him as a potential customer and steps closer, hands spread wide in a gesture that is supposed to be welcoming and reassuring. To most, it will prove that the merchant isn’t carrying a weapon as he hustles closer to begin his intricate negotiations; to Quoyah, it simply proves that the Volus has things to sell.

“My friend,” the salesman’s voice wheezes through the voice processor that is attached to the respirator of his environmental suit. “Something in a reinforced chest guard? A reliable Turian foot-soldier’s rifle?”

He shakes his head, “Thank you, no. I need a very specific caliber of ammunition that I had heard was available from your establishment.”

The Volus pauses and stares up at him for a long moment. “Indeed,” the response hisses slowly from the respirator. “I actually don’t handle our munition stores, sir, but if you will step this way, I can introduce you to my associate …”

The stout form moves away, and Quoyah follows slowly, knowing that he has become exposed by leaving the safety of the milling crowd in front of the stall. Quickly, he scans the marketplace again, wondering at the intense feeling of paranoia that is gripping him. He knows that he can explain it away by using Lieutenant Erocas’s surveillance as the reason that he feels that he is being watched, but there is something else in this sensation. Something deeper and more menacing. But the source is elusive, and he inhales a great breath to try to calm the jangling of his nerves.

The Volus who has greeted him at the front of the stall approaches one of his partners who is in negotiations with a Batarian over some small piece of armor plating that appears to need modification in order to fit properly. His guide steps into the fray of the haggling, skillfully maneuvering his partner out of the exchange and taking responsibility for the sale himself. He watches as the other squat creature backs away from the four-eyed individual, bowing obsequiously until some arcane distance from the negotiation has been reached. The enviro-suited Volus then turns and waddles toward him.

“Quoyah Faha,” an ambiguously pitched voice greets him, neither a female alto or a male tenor — a sound that skims along the edges of gender and attempts to seduce him to join the Volus in a world of intrigue. Today, the environmental suit that encases the teardrop of flesh is decorated with clips that sparkle with precious stones from the farthest reaches of the known galaxies, and the boots have a large platform that adds height to the diminutive form. The Volus’s appearance is a kind of game, too, and it takes a nimble, adaptable mind to be able to master the intricacies of interacting with this particular individual. Because you can never know for certain whether you are dealing with a male or a female.

Ever.

And the Volus makes it a part of the business of living to confuse customers and strangers alike at every turn.

Quoyah bows slightly in the direction of the environmental suit to acknowledge that he has heard the greeting and scans the crowd once again. Finding that Lieutenant Erocas is shifting closer to the Volus market stall, he studies the forms closest to her, wondering whether his unease has something to do with a danger to the C-Sec officer who is wandering corridors where the peacekeepers are usually hard to find. He has not thought that it could be the Turian’s presence that has caused his unease, especially since he has not felt this way on any of the other days that she has trailed along after him. Perhaps it is her tall, armored form that has him feeling as if a thousand tiny rachni are skittering along the length of his torso. It is something to consider — after he has transacted his business with the Volus.

“You honor me with your presence, Larleed Bar,” he finally replies to the enviro-suited figure. “In the thousand days since we have last been together, there has been no one who compares to you.”

Bar chuckles lightly, almost a purr of pleasure as it emerges from the respirator. “You know very well that it’s been less than a month, Quoyah, and even less time since we spoke last. But I do agree that no one compares to me.” The Volus looks around at the milling shoppers, and Faha can hear a little hiss of irritation escape from the speaker. “But this is no place to reminisce. Please follow me.”

He slips in behind the mass of the enviro-suit, allowing Bar to create the space to get them both to where they will continue their discussion. The shoppers all know better than to try to delay the Volus when there is a customer waiting for a private consultation, and the roiling crowd organizes itself to create a passage for the sales representative and the consumer. Quoyah smiles to himself and follows the steadily retreating form in the environmental suit.

“Here we are,” Larleed Bar purrs, settling on a well-padded cushion and reaching for a bottle that Quoyah sees in exactly the same place every time he visits the Volus. There is something very particular about Bar, about the way that everything is in its own place in this space, almost as if the squat creature cannot allow anything to fall beyond the realm of personal control.

Which makes Larleed Bar a perfect representative for the Shadow Broker.

Quoyah Faha has known from the beginning who the Volus truly represents in the little shop in the back corridors of the Citadel. There are other representatives, of course, but his relationship with Bar is longer than his need for information from the very well-connected, very secluded data merchant has been. He met the Volus on his first off-world mission for the Hanar, and the rivalry that was sparked by that initial encounter is the basis for their long-lasting, mostly friendly interactions. He shakes his head at the Volus’s offer of a drink and settles into a chair on the other side of the meticulous pile of cushions. Hearing the sigh that escapes through the respirator, Quoyah stills himself, understanding without having to ask that Bar is upset with the news that must be delivered.

The Volus sighs again. “You certainly know how to make my life complicated, Quoyah.”

He shakes his head. “I do not mean to, my friend. But perhaps we should blame our entanglement on the gangs who chose to wage their war in the bar where I was attempting to enjoy a moment of peace.” He chooses to leave out the fact that he was with the Asari; Larleed already knows the entire story behind his request for information from the Shadow Broker. It does not profit his interaction with the Volus for him to attempt to lie, and he had allowed his eidetic memory to replay the entirety of the scene for Bar, more as a formality so that there would be no misunderstanding his own motives for his need for the names of the gangs involved.

“Your life is not meant for peace, Quoyah,” the Volus sighs through the respirator, the enviro-suited head tipping so that Larleed can study tips of the platformed boots.

“I cannot understand why you say that,” he frowns back at his friend. “I have as much freedom to chose my life as any resident of the universe.”

The Volus shrugs. “I just worry about you — as I always have — and where the information that you have requested will lead you.”

“If it leads me to bring justice to the Asari who was needless killed, simply because I met her in that bar, then it will be enough.”

Shrugging again, Larleed lifts a datapad from a nearby table and extends it toward him. “Everything that you asked for, courtesy of the Shadow Broker. All he asks is to be apprised of the results of your investigation.”

Quoyah blinks slowly, wondering why the data merchant would be interested in a rivalry between two back-corridor gangs on the Citadel. A little shiver of fear races down his spine, and he hesitates for a long moment, considering the datapad in the Volus’s outstretched hand. “I appreciate your concern, Larleed,” he says deliberately, “but I cannot allow her death to have been in vain. Something positive for someone must come from it.” He wrap his fingers around the device in Bar’s hand and pulls it closer. “Even if I am not the one to benefit.”

“Well, you’ve lost me there,” Larleed Bar says, slipping from the cushions and wandering across the small space of what most would refer to as the “office” of the Volus’s business. “If there isn’t a personal profit in an interaction, then there’s no reason to bother.”

He stays where he is, watching his friend wander aimlessly around the meticulously maintained space. “Is that all we have been to each other all these years, Larleed? Profit centers?”

The Volus chuckles. “Of course not, Quoyah. You are my friend, my best customer, and the cause of my continually broken heart.” The little whine sounds tinny and false, filtered through the enviro-suit’s respirator system, and he smiles slightly to himself. He knows that this banter is half playful, half honest, and meant to throw him off balance to give Larleed the upper hand. And he is used to it.

“Perhaps you should consult the Salarians about that condition,” he says, rising to his feet and crossing to place one of his hands on the Volus’s shoulder. “It profits neither of us to have you lost to the universe.”

Larleed Bar lifts a hand and places it on top of Quoyah’s, squeezing it gently before removing it. Turning away, the Volus walks toward the opening that will take them both back into the busy marketplace. The Drell is just able to catch what Bar says before he exits the office, and smiles to himself again.

“Flatterer,” the Volus wheezes before sliding back into the crowd.


	5. Chapter 5

He shifts his shoulders against the wall where he is waiting, forcing himself to remain calm despite his impatience for this next step in his planned revenge to begin. Many of the members of the gang have already entered the place that they have assumed is safe from the prying eyes of the Citadel’s security forces and rival gangs. It is an assumption that he will shortly test, and he knows that he will prove that their sense of being above the touch of outside forces is false.

From what he observes, Lieutenant Erocas is less patient than he has been so far, shifting occasionally in the shadows where she is monitoring his surveillance. He hopes that he will be able to conclude his business with this gang before the C-Sec officer gets pulled into the battle: he does not wish for her reputation with the peacekeepers to be tarnished by what many will call his “vigilante actions.” In his heart of hearts, he wishes that she had given up tailing him, that she had chosen this day to stay in her apartments in the Citadel or to write a report on his suspicious activities. After this time of feeling her behind him, he is so used to her presence that he knows that he will miss it when it is no longer necessary for her to follow him. But like a stray pet who trails after you in hopes of finding shelter, Usi Erocas must be returned to her true home among the forces of C-Sec.

The hum of voices attracts his attention, and he briefly raises his eyes to see the gang members for whom he is waiting pass by the guards posted in the corridor in front of the entrance to their headquarters. After the leader and his bodyguards have moved into the chambers, he spends a long moment studying the two left on the outside — one a four-eyed Batarian carrying a wicked-looking assault rifle and the other, a Krogan, who has hired his fighting prowess and great bulk out to these small-time crime lords. For long moments, they simply stand in front of the doorway, their weapons ready, their eyes searching up and down the corridors for any threat. But like most guards, the novelty of their posting quickly wears thin, and the Batarian begins to try to engage his counterpart in conversation. Quoyah knows the moment when the four-eyed guard has gone too far, watching as the Krogan grinds his massive jaws together and tightens his grip on his own weapon. It is the only signal that he needs, and he slips deeper into the shadows in the corridor and opens the maintenance hatch that he has worked loose, despite the best efforts of the Citadel’s Keepers — the strange, silent alien lifeforms that clean and repair the space station — to keep the grate in place and secure. With only a tiny effort, he is through the opening and sliding along the narrow passageway.

In moments, he is climbing up through a ventilation duct, his footsteps as silent as he can make them, his arms and legs aching from the process of pressing his body firmly against the sides of the shaft and forcing his mass higher. It is perhaps five meters of ascension and then he is in a cross-conduit which parallels the space where this particular gang has established its headquarters.

Stretching out on the cool metal, he leans on one elbow and pulls his datapad from a pocket. After a few keystrokes, he activates a program that he has created to infiltrate the door controls. The screen quickly confirms that the security system of the room is overridden, locking the two guards that he has left in the corridor out of the rooms. Like most leaders, the head of this gang is certain that his safe place is exactly that — safe. Protected by guards and the other members who encircle him like a radiation shield, he believes that he has taken every precaution to keep himself more secure than anyone else around him. He rests in that certainty — that he is the most important member of the gang, the one for whom all others are willing to sacrifice themselves.

He is wrong, of course, but very few in positions of power assume that they can ever be wrong.

Sliding along the conduit, he locates the small grate that he has marked during his earlier reconnaissance of the headquarters. With slow, steady movements, he works the covering away from its housing, slipping it into the space beside him and settling it out of his way with the softest of _clicks_. He presses his body back into the shadows, concentrating on stilling his breathing and reassuring himself that the gang members have not been alerted to his presence.

But it is exactly as he had assumed it would be: no one looks up when they are suspicious. And he has minimized his noise enough that the individuals gathered for their meeting and celebration have not noticed him hidden away in the darkness above their heads. He inhales deeply and breathes out slowly, willing his heartbeat to still, his pulse to cease its rushing throb. There is nothing to do now but wait until he understands that the time is right.

He listens as the voices below him rise and fall with the enthusiasm of the group, the droning buzz becoming a roar for long moments before it settles back into its steadier rumble. The gang leader makes a rambling, disjointed speech, designed exclusively — Quoyah is certain — to whip the members into a ecstatic fervor for their fellow members and what they have achieved through their last exploits. He can feel the sneer wrinkling his lip as the head of the group extols their power, strength, and preparedness, and he wonders silently what the speech will sound like after today. After what is to come. After what he will do to them.

The meeting eventually becomes a celebration, many of the universe’s most potent beverages flowing freely throughout the room. While the alcohol circulates, the noise becomes raucous, uncontrollably loud, dangerously aggressive, and still he waits. He schools himself to patience, knowing that he will be in control in the action to come: allowing himself to be overwrought by an edgy desire to battle will only complicate things for him. Willing himself to silence, Quoyah recalls that moment when his Asari companion flew away from his side, the echo of her crunching bones ringing in his memory once again. He slowly examines the contrast between the soothing aqua-blue of her skin and the brilliant trail of violaceous blood that seeps from the openings of her ears. He feels the outrage growing within him, and he prepares to take the next step.

Turning toward the space where the grate has been, he glances out at the assembled gang members who have formed smaller cells of braggarts and eager attendants, all sinking through different levels of inebriation. The ventilation grate that he has chosen is perfectly situated behind a variety of stacked contraband merchandise that the organization has managed to secrete away here, some of it for their own use and some for sale to others to ensure their continued profitability and growth. Examining the narrow space behind the boxes, he quickly scans the room once again and drops into the opening, as silent as nightfall on a distant planet.

Crouching in the shadows, he pauses to listen carefully, a sudden crescendo in the conversations causing his muscles to tighten reflexively. Slowly, tensely, he creeps forward and peers around the edge of the boxes that have hidden him from detection thus far. The party is rushing headlong toward its raucous pinnacle, and he sighs in satisfaction, knowing that his waiting has come to an end.

Settling his shoulders against the tower of boxes, he allows the rise and fall of conversations around him to fill his ears with their beat. His heart thrums in rhythm with the noise, and when he begins to feel the tempo rise again, he braces his feet against the wall and begins to push. Behind him, the boxes shift, rocking in time with the throbbing of his pulse and the chatter of the inebriated gang members.

Until everything shatters apart and then his heartbeat is the only rhythm that he can feel.

The motion that he has created in the crates of contraband causes the stacks to topple toward the gang members. He knows that some of them will be trapped beneath the heavy boxes — traders in illegal and stolen goods rarely deal in lightweight paper or fabrics — and he is depending on these crates to reduce the number of combatants during the fight to come. When he feels the column begin to tip, he rolls away from his hiding place and rushes toward where he hears the gang leader’s voice shout in confusion. Before anyone is prepared, he had dropped two gang members to the floor by breaking their knees, and he drives himself closer to the leader. While he moves, he picks up what he needs. A rifle that someone has left leaning against a chair. A long piece of chain that is hanging from someone’s belt.

The rifle he uses to knock a Batarian unconscious, the stock meeting the skull with a satisfying crunch while the four-eyed alien is only beginning to look for his own weapon. The chain flies through the air to wrap again and again around the legs of a human female, and he notices that her momentum causes her to fall and strike her head against the edge of the table littered with bottles and scraps from the celebration. Without hesitation, he picks up the next, nearest weapons and moves on like lightning leaping between grounding poles.

He is grateful that his reconnaissance revealed that the gang couldn’t afford more than the one Krogan who is now locked outside of his attack. The huge, battle-hardened creatures are too well armored to make them collapse with an accurate strike to the back of the head or by breaking a leg bone or two. If the gang had been better financed or had received a better payment for their little conflict in the bar — or if the leader hadn’t decided that it was more important to celebrate than to invest in their future — they could have hired more Krogans to fill out their ranks. As it is, their one, most powerful fighter is locked on the other side of the security door, arguing with another Batarian who doesn’t know better than to start a fight with a Krogan. He anticipates finding the remains of the four-eyed alien spattered across the walls of the corridor — or at least finding him with a few broken bones.

Leaping across the table, he uses one booted foot to send it skidding across the floor toward the greatest concentration of gang members, the ones who have not been caught in the collapse of the boxed contraband. The contents topple to the floor, the bottles shattering and leaking their flammable liquids to puddle around the feet of the gang members now trapped between the broken boxes and the sideways table. Pulling a flare from his pocket, the strikes it to burning and tosses it into the alcohol. Flames whoosh up around the feet of the gang members, and they scramble over the shattered crates in an attempt to escape the fire. The noise rises to a hysterical pitch, but he notices with a sense of deep satisfaction that his heartbeat does not speed to meet the feverish cacophony that fills the room.

He is the center of calm in a swirling maelstrom.

And then, suddenly, he is not alone. A tall human is rushing toward him, his arms extended to take him down in an easy tackle. Swiftly, he ducks, stepping forward in his own countermovement that allows him to wrap his arms around the human’s hips, lift the man from the floor, and drop him onto his head. Turning quickly, he grabs the leg that is closest to him and lifts it away from the floor with one hand. In the next instant, his boot has made contact with the man’s calf, and he can hear the crack of the bones when they shatter beneath the force of his stomping foot.

Vaulting over the screaming man at his feet, he locates the gang leader near the back of the room where he is staring at the chaos that now has taken over his celebration. He sees the deep frown of anger on the human’s face, and Quoyah is once again surprised by the adaptability and raw hubris of humans. They are the youngest of the races who have been invited to participate in some way in the galactic government centered in the Citadel, and yet they have infiltrated more aspects of its everyday life — both legal and illegal. He wonders at the rapid rise of the species, at what besides pure ego and ambition drives these creatures. But when the gang leader raises his hand to point toward him, his questions fly from his mind.

Although he can imagine the words that are streaming from the leader’s mouth, he cannot actually hear them. What he does hear, however, is the humming burr of weapons charging, and he whips himself forward to complete his planned vengeance.

He has moved perhaps two steps when a shower of liquid fire retardant begins in the room, covering every surface with the wet, clinging foam that will smother the fire that is still burning in the pools of spilled alcohol. But he doesn’t mind that. The retardant will do something else — something even more important to his personal safety.

It will short circuit the electronics in most of the weapons in the room.

Blasters and pulse rifles are wonderful pieces of technology, but only the most advanced, military-issued weapons are built to be used in _any_ battle condition. One of the shortcuts that most modern, consumer manufacturers choose to reduce cost is removing the weather shielding. Perhaps they assume — perhaps correctly — that most individuals who use their products prefer ship corridors and dry, open spaces for their battles. As the flame retardant foam settles onto the few guns that are raised to point in his direction, many of them _snap_ and _fizz_ , the liquid creating connections between circuits that were never meant to directly interact. In moments, he hears the popping overload and the clattering of weapons being dropped from surprised hands. 

It is more satisfying to see that the one personal guard to the gang leader who managed to raise his weapon suddenly drops it. There will be no gun fire from this direction, and he moves swiftly forward to meet the bodyguards, his fists clenched for battle.

But there are three of them, protecting the man that he must subdue and question. And there is no time to strategize. No matter, he tells himself, and leaps forward.

Two of the bodyguards move forward as a team, set on being able to flank him on at least one side. He uses their single-minded focus, throwing himself up and wrapping his arms around one of the guard’s necks while his feet fly out, and both make contact with the other’s face. Using the strength of his arms alone, he tightens his grip mercilessly, and the first guard collapses, unconscious, in a matter of seconds. When he lands on his feet, he sees that the guard that he has kicked has managed to get onto her hands and knees, but she is disoriented, shaking her head as if to clear a fog. Quoyah kicks her while she is still trying to recover, his booted foot making contact just below the ear. She crumbles into a heap on the floor.

He stops, his breath surprisingly even for the exertion of the last few minutes, and simply stares at the gang leader. The last bodyguard is fiddling with his rifle, as if moving levers or banging the side with his hand will dislodge whatever has caused the electronics to malfunction. Quoyah slowly draws his own weapon, a blackmarket, military-grade pistol, and levels it at the gang leader’s head.

“Who hired you?” he asks menacingly.

The gang leader blinks and stares blankly at him for a moment. Then he shouts, “That’s what all this is about? Who hired us? Fucking hell, asshole! I would have told you that in a heartbeat. You didn’t need to do all this!”

Quoyah smiles lopsidedly. “I may not have needed to do this, but I certainly enjoyed it.”

The human frowns and begins to chew on his lower lip, and Quoyah knows that the next words from the man’s mouth will be a lie. But he has all the time in the world to get the information he needs. If violence is necessary, so be it.

In a quick rush, he traps the human against the wall, one hand wrapped tightly around the thick throat. With his other arm, he drives his elbow into the last guard’s face, breaking a variety of bones and dropping him in a heap to one side. His strong fingers tighten around the gang leader’s neck, and Quoyah forces him upward until the human’s feet dangle inches from the wet floor.

“Who hired you?” he whispers again, his voice tight and hard.

“For what, you idiot son-of-a-bitch?” the man gasps out. “We make our money doing jobs for people.”

“The fight against your rival gang in the bar. Who hired you to perform in that farce?”

The human’s eyes widen, and Quoyah knows that it is the one secret that the man had never expected to have to reveal. There is real danger in the information that the gang leader will be forced to share, but his need for vengeance will not be assuaged until he has learned all he can.

And done all he can.

He tightens his fingers on the human’s throat.

“Enzo Soie,” the man gasps at last, his own hands clawing together at Quoyah’s tight grip. “Lernaean Corporation. From Earth.”

Slowly, with what seems like unnecessary care, Quoyah holsters his weapon and lets his other hand join the first around the man’s throat. It seems impossible that the man’s eyes can grow any wider, but they do, especially when the pressure from all ten Drell digits begins to increase. A red-purple color creeps into the human’s skin, and Quoyah watches it rise with curious fascination.

“Thank you for your honesty,” he says softly, his face close to the gang leader’s ear so that he will be certain to hear. “And I hope that it *is** honest. For your sake. If I learn otherwise … well, I will just let you try to imagine what I might do to you when I am actually angry.”

He leans back so that he can meet the gang leader’s eyes, knowing the effect that staring into the void-like darkness of a Drell’s gaze can have on humans. The man gasps and struggles, his fingers working even more vigorously against the grip that Quoyah maintains on his throat. Until he stops. Until the reduction in oxygen and circulation causes him to slip into unconsciousness.

But Quoyah is satisfied. He has no need to kill any of these men. Only to gather information from them.

Turning, he draws his weapon again and levels it toward the rest of the gang members in the front of the room, but the confusion with the fire and the retardant has driven most of them toward the exit. He reaches into a pocket in his armored clothing and retrieves his datapad. He is about to enter the code that will release his control on the security system when the doors slide open, and he sees Usi Erocas and Larleed Bar framed in the opening, the datapad that the Volus has used to override the counter-programming that locked the doors still in one enviro-suited hand. Quoyah strides toward them.

“Officer Erocas!” he calls when he is within earshot of her. “I suggest that you arrest as many of these individuals as you can and search these crates. You will find that they have been smuggling some very interesting items.”

He watches as the area around her eyes turns dark navy and her lids tighten in anger. But there is nothing else that he can do for her. Turning to the Volus, he places a hand on Bar’s shoulder and squeezes it quickly.

“Come to take me out for that drink, have you, Larleed? You know that I have never been able to refuse an invitation from you.”

With a quick glance over his shoulder at Lieutenant Erocas, he heads down the corridor with the Volus at his side.


	6. Chapter 6

The adrenalin drives him, and Quoyah hurries down the hallways of the Citadel, not at all certain where he wants to go or what he should do. He has information on the other gang involved in the battle at the bar, but he knows that now is not the moment to go in search of them. The current state of his mind and body would only have him tumbling into battle without truly being prepared. He must redirect his energies.

Walking helps, but he can hear the wheezing pant emitted by Larleed Bar’s enviro-suit as the tear-drop shaped merchant tries to keep up with his longer stride. It is not that the Volus is unhealthy; it is simply that Quoyah’s body demands more action, and he can push himself far beyond the limits of many other species. He must find a way to allow this energy to escape, or he is certain that he will burn himself up from the inside.

He looks around quickly, immediately recognizing the corridor that he is racing along, and adjusts his course slightly. After all, he has promised Larleed a drink. And if the Volus has managed to keep up with him for this long, it is only what the Volus deserves.

Stepping around a corner into a long promenade with a spectacular view across the lights and buildings of the Citadel, he hears a sudden intake of breath and feels hands wrap around his arm. Without knowing exactly what has happened, he finds himself flat on his back in the middle of the corridor. He blinks slowly to reorient himself.

“Matrons!” a female voice barks out, just loud enough to rise slightly above the bustle of the individuals strolling around — and some over — where Quoyah has landed. “I didn’t mean to do that. I must have been in space just a little too long for polite company.”

He looks up and meets the sparkling violet eyes of an Asari. She is smiling down at him, her hand extended to help him rise, and he stares at it blankly for just a moment too long. Larleed Bar strolls forward and places one hand in the woman’s.

“Think nothing of it, maiden,” the Volus says softly, but with enough volume that Quoyah can hear the words. “You’ve done me the greatest of favors, even without knowing it.”

The Asari frowns down at the hand that has taken hold of hers, and then glances over at Bar. “I did? I thought I just threw a complete stranger to the deck for no reason whatsoever.”

Larleed nods enthusiastically — a little too enthusiastically for Quoyah’s liking — and slides a second hand up to also take hold of the woman’s. “You did do that, but the important thing is that you finally made him stop. Something I haven’t been able to do for far, far too long for my personal comfort. Maiden, please, tell me your name and how I might be able to reward you.” Quoyah glances over at Bar, surprise rushing across his face. The Volus _never_ volunteers payment or reward of any kind.

Unfortunately, the Asari has seen his startled expression, too, and she pulls her hand away from the Volus’s grip, the frown on her face deepening. “Sorry,” she says curtly, “I don’t take rewards for doing something stupid to someone I don’t even know.”

“That I can remedy in just a moment,” Bar replies. “I am Larleed Bar, weapons and armor merchant of the highest caliber. And my very energetic friend is Quoyah Faha.” The Volus looks up at the Asari expectantly, but she simply stares back at him. Finally, he gives in and prompts her, “And you are …?”

While Larleed makes these introductions, Quoyah rises to his feet and brushes his clothing, more to be certain that nothing has fallen — or has been taken — out of his pockets during this accident. But the Asari seems honestly regretful that she threw him to the floor, and he finds that his personal items are all exactly where they belong. He looks at the woman again, studying the blue of her skin, the tiny patterns of darker azure and purple splotches that decorate her nose and cheeks, and the smooth crests that sweep back from her forehead and down to the nape of her neck. She is wearing a unique collection of mismatched armor, some manufactured for humans, some for other races, but he cannot see a weapon at her waist or shoulder. She meets his eyes and smiles apologetically at him again.

“Sorry,” she says again. “My name is Calena Nyxir. I really should have known better than to throw someone here on the Citadel. You’re not hurt, are you?”

“My dear Calena,” Bar laughs, tucking one hand into the bend of the Asari’s elbow. With a gentle tug on her arm, he starts down the promenade, the young woman following in a bewildered daze, looking over her shoulder at Quoyah. He shrugs at her and trails after his friend. And the Volus’s … guest? Conquest? Mentally this time, he shrugs again and tries to follow Bar’s endless stream of chatter.

“If you have time, you should learn a little more about the Drell. Not that Quoyah will voluntarily give you any lessons. He’s a tight-lipped one, our little, scaly friend is.”

“I know about the Drell,” Calena replies, her voice brusk and clipped. “I don’t need lessons on alien species at the Citadel.”

“No, no, of course not. But forewarned is fore-armed, right, my dear?”

Quoyah can see that the frown has returned to the Asari’s face when she looks down at the Volus. “I don’t understand what you’re saying … uh, Merchant Bar.”

“Just call me ‘Larleed,’” the Volus replies, patting the girl’s arm. “The point is, if you had enough information about the Drell, you would know that they are a durable, wiry race. It takes more than a little fall to put them out of commission. Tough. Flexible. That’s a typical Drell for you.”

Calena looks over her shoulder at him again. “Still, I think I’d feel better about the whole thing if you’d just let _him_ tell me that he’s all right.”

“Oh, he will. He will. But first, let’s just get us all ensconced in a comfy little booth and have a few friendly drinks. What do you say to that?” Larleed stops at the entrance to one of the most exclusive gambling dens and bars on the Citadel and gently motions the Asari toward the door.

“No, no,” she says, waving her hands in front of her and taking a small step away from the entrance. “I couldn’t afford to go into this kind of place if I’d completed seven … no, eight … assignments.”

Quoyah smiles to himself, knowing exactly how the girl is feeling. Even though he has enough credits to dine here whenever he would like, he has only ever set foot in _Contrapasso_ as the Volus’s guest. He stares up at the brilliant, glowing green letters of the sign for a long moment, until he hears a man calling to his friend.

“Larleed Bar!” the owner of the establishment says eagerly, hands extended to take the Volus’s in a tight grip. “You _are_ thinking of dining with us today, aren’t you? It’s been much, much too long since you last visited.”

Larleed waves a hand at the man and nods. “I wouldn’t darken your doorstep unless I had exactly those plans, my dear,” Bar says. “My guests and I would like a private booth, if you have one available at this time of the day.”

“For you, of course. If you will only follow me.”

Quoyah watches as Larleed Bar moves farther into the establishment, seeing the little stir that the Volus’s presence creates among the already seated patrons. Glancing over at the Asari who seems equally as stunned as he is, he approaches her and says, “We should not miss this opportunity. Larleed is feeling very generous today.”

She frowns at him, her face twisting in confusion. “You’re kidding, right? You honestly expect me to go in there and eat with you, just like that?”

He shrugs. “Would you prefer that I send you away? Break your jaw with a well-placed blow? Throw you to the deck in revenge?”

Surprise rushes across her face, and she stares at him for a long moment. Finally, she laughs and seems to give up. “No, that’s not what I would prefer at all. And I really could use a good meal.”

Quoyah gestures for her to precede him into the lounge and then follows, his eyes scanning the crowd, uncomfortably aware that the sensation of being watched has suddenly returned. Straightening slightly, he stills the almost unconscious motion of his hand toward his weapon. There should be no need, he reminds himself scoldingly. There is nothing here that can threaten you.

The owner of _Contrapasso_ is still chatting with Larleed Bar when he and Calena Nyxir arrive at the secluded booth. The man pulls the table away from the oval of padding, waiting until they have seated themselves before he replaces it. In the next moment, he is gone with the promise of having a special bottle delivered to their table. Larleed thanks him and promises to seek him out before leaving, which wreathes the owner’s face in smiles.

When the man is out of earshot, Bar sighs breathily through the respirator of the enviro-suit. “It can be so trying, being such a highly respected merchant on the Citadel,” the Volus complains, and Quoyah knows that the words are a half-hearted attempt brush aside the treatment they have received at _Contrapasso_. In truth, the little merchant loves the special attention, loves attracting new individuals and new experiences into the very exclusive circle of Larleed Bar’s influence. He shakes his head and tries to think of something appropriate to say in response.

“So what now?” the maiden asks, staring around at the patrons and decor of the lounge. Before either he or Larleed can answer, a waiter appears beside their table and places a bottle in the center. The Volus waves away the offer to pour and opens the beverage, tipping some into both Quoyah and the Asari’s glasses.

“Aren’t you having any?” Calena stares at her drink suspiciously while Bar replaces the bottle in the middle of the table.

“Ah, my dear,” the Volus replies, “it’s one of the curses of being so unlike most of the residents of the Citadel. I am trapped inside this environmental suit for as long as I walk along the corridors. A prisoner, if you will, of my own success.”

Quoyah almost chokes on the drink that he has only just taken a sip from, the burning sensation causing him to cough uncontrollably for a long moment. When he finally stills the spasming, he sees that both Larleed and Calena are staring at him, and he smiles weakly at them.

The Asari girl frowns and turns to speak to the Volus. “Oh, yeah, he’s a really powerful specimen of his species. I can clearly see that now.”

Laughter wheezes from the respirator. “I knew there was a reason that I was going to like you, Calena Nyxir. You must become one of my closest friends, from this moment forward.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s possible, as much as I might like for it to happen. I have to find work fairly soon, and it’s pretty much guaranteed to take me away from the Citadel.”

“He has work for you.”

Quoyah stares at the Volus, his eyelids blinking slowly, both sets briefly shutting out the sight of the little merchant in the enviro-suit across the table from him. “I do?” he asks slowly.

“Of course, you do, Quoyah,” Larleed says, waving his question away with the flick of one hand. “You have people to … to meet. Calena can help you with that, certainly?”

“She can?” both he and the Asari say at the same time.

The Volus nods. “Your encounter was serendipitous. You need work; and he needs someone to watch his back. I know you expected me to do it, Quoyah, but …”

“I expected nothing of the kind, Larleed,” he replies, “and you know that perfectly well.” He stares at the little merchant, suddenly deeply aware of the other things that the Volus deals to the world: the information of the Shadow Broker. “What are you not telling me, my friend?”

He can see that the Volus is reluctant to answer, and he wonders whether it is the information or the setting that makes his friend hesitate. Staring intently into the glowing discs that cover the little merchant’s eyes, he is about to ask his question again when something slams into the tabletop, making the bottle and glasses jump and rattle. He looks up into the orange gaze of Lieutenant Usi Erocas, noting the navy flush around her eyes with quiet pleasure.

“ _What_ was that about?” she asks angrily, her eyes boring straight into his. “It wasn’t bad enough that you lost me, that I had to deal with those thugs at the door, that I had to ask … this …” she waves her hand in Larleed’s general direction, “… to help me get in. But then you dump that pile of contraband straight into my lap …”

“I thought it would help,” he says quietly. “That it would give you a good mark on your record. Help get you back in with C-Sec.”

“I. Don’t. Need. Your. Help,” she grinds out, the mandibles around her mouth clicking together with each word.

“It appears to me,” Larleed says softly, “that you did need help today, Usi. Everyone needs a little assistance now and then. Am I right, Calena?”

Quoyah can see the moment when her surroundings register with the Turian, when she realizes that she is not alone with him somewhere that she can vent her entire roster of frustrations on him. Looking around the edges of her armor, he sees that her actions have attracted more than a few curious gazes, and he studies the faces of those who are nervously glancing in their direction. He doesn’t blame them: the only reason for a C-Sec officer to be in _Contrapasso_ now is if there is trouble to be forestalled or an arrest to be made. While he watches, Usi's and Calena’s eyes meet, and he can see the angry tension that passes between the two females. The Lieutenant finally turns to face the Volus merchant, and Quoyah sees some of her rage slip away.

“Come,” Larleed Bar says, gesturing for a chair to be brought to the table. “We have a lovely bottle of something very potent — to those who can drink it — and we would like to share it with you, Usi.”

The Turian sighs and nods slightly, accepting the stool that is placed behind her and settling with her elbows on the table. She drops her head into her hands, and Quoyah sees her eyes close until Bar’s own glass is filled and pushed in front of her. Picking it up from the table, she tips her head back and swallows the entire glassful, her body shuddering when the alcohol hits her system.

“So,” the Volus says slowly, “simply from professional interest, my dear, would you mind telling me what exactly you did with all of that lovely contraband that I saw spilled across the floor of that room?”

“I turned it over to C-Sec, of course,” she answers, holding out her glass to be refilled. “I let some officer called ‘Harkin’ take credit for the arrests.”

Larleed Bar sighs. “Such a waste of a perfectly good opportunity,” he says, tipping the bottle. “I suppose that I should have been more prepared. But you were in such a rush, Usi.”

“I was trying to do my duty, Larleed,” she replies, lifting her drink. “But this one makes it cursedly hard …”

Bar laughs wheezily. “He does, doesn’t he? Have you met our new friend? She’s going to be trying to help him get things done. So I suppose you could follow her instead.”

“I could not,” the Turian replies coldly. “She’s not my assignment.”

“She could not,” Calena adds. “I’m not working for you. Or him. Ever.”

Larleed laughs again, and Quoyah sees the eye-slots of the enviro-suit focused steadily on him. There is a strange feeling of satisfaction coming from the Volus, and he wonders why his friend should believe that he has solved some problem that the Drell didn’t even know exists. He stares back and waits.

“We’ll see,” is all that Larleed says. Quoyah takes it as a very bad sign. “We’ll see.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Are you certain we must do this now?” Quoyah asks, barely restraining his pace to that of the squat Volus at his side. Larleed is strolling contentedly through the long corridors of the Citadel, answering hails from a variety of species with friendly calls to promote the merchant’s business and pausing to directly answer as many questions as possible. The Volus has one hand tucked into the crook of Calena Nyxir’s arm, and they chat companionably when the merchant isn’t talking to those who have attracted particular attention.

Quoyah chafes at the delay — has begun to feel himself straining against the bonds that have held him in place in the days since he completed the first step in his vengeance against the gangs that killed the Asari prostitute — but until this moment, he has been able to push those sensations aside. Today, he cannot.

Today, it is too much.

Because he is no closer to finding the leader of the second gang.

He has searched. He has questioned any number of contacts that he maintains throughout the Citadel in the hopes of pinpointing the gang leader’s exact location. He has even gone to the places where his information has assured him that his target will be. But each time, he has either been fed inaccurate data or his quarry has been just ahead of him. The lack of closure for his vengeance irks him, like an itching under his skin that he has no way to reach.

And honestly, trailing along after Larleed Bar just at this moment isn’t helping.

“Of course we must do this now, Quoyah,” the Volus says, waving casually to a small group of Asari who have called out. The Drell struggles to rein in his pace to the languid plod that his friend insists on keeping, but it is just one more thing that chafes under his skin. The teardrop-shaped merchant has assured him that he is needed at this appointment, that there is a role that he will play that can make or break the negotiation, and he has come along simply because there is nothing else to do. Better to be out of the pressing containment of his apartment and wandering along behind Larleed.

Even if it is at this damnably creeping pace.

He senses the Volus’s gaze on him and looks down into the amber lenses that glow above the eyes inside the enviro-suit. The visuals shutter off for a quick moment, the blackness that the closing of the visual ports creates giving Quoyah a sudden sense of the lurking presence of death. Looking around quickly, he notices Lieutenant Erocas watching them from what the C-Sec officer surely believes is a “safe” distance, but in his current mood, he wishes once again that she had stayed away. He can’t explain this almost overwhelming feeling that he is responsible for her health; certainly no one has ever explicitly given him that assignment. And yet, there it is: that sensation that she is his to protect, that any injury to her is a result of his own irresponsible behavior or inattention. He frowns in her direction, meeting her eyes until she gently lifts her shoulders as if she can dismiss his insecurities as easily as that. Silently, he wishes that her shrug had magically made him feel better and ruthlessly pushes his doubts aside.

The Volus stops suddenly in front of the access door to a maintenance dock on the space station. “You remember why you’re here, don’t you, Quoyah?” Larleed asks him, the visual discs lighting again. “Are you certain that you can play the part that I’ve asked you to perform, my friend?”

He nods and says, “As much as I am confident that I can do you this service, Larleed, I still fail to understand why you need me. Anyone could play this part. There are many others on the Citadel who need a starship, and my need is not as pressing as the need of most of those individuals. At this point, I do not see myself leaving until I am reassigned by the Hanar.”

“He has a distinctly short vision for a Drell, don’t you think, Calena?” Bar asks the female whose arm is resting tightly against the Volus’s side.

The Asari shrugs, looking over her shoulder at him. “I wouldn’t know. I had thought that his eyesight was excellent, but I’ve never seen him in any kind of action.”

Bar shakes the enviro-suited head and sighs. “Yes, I suppose that careening into him when you first met implies that he has poor vision. You see, Quoyah, first impressions _are_ very important.”

“Then you should be grateful that there are second and third impressions, my friend, he replies, “because the chances of us being at all acquainted after our first impression of each other is remote at best.”

“What?” Calena interjects quickly. “What does he mean by that?”

“It’s nothing, my dear,” the Volus says, patting the maiden’s arm. “We’ll tell you all about it another time. In fact, Quoyah will retell the story in exacting detail, if you want him to.”

She shrugs. “If I have time. I still expect to find another posting. Soon.”

“Of course, my dear.”

He sees the Volus’s hand patting the blue-tinged arm again and frowns. Asari maidens do not become available for private mercenary assignments as easily as most individuals would think: just the sheer number of planets controlled by the species demands a larger military force than most other alien life forms in the universe maintain. And most maidens choose local protective service, not the uncertainty of hiring themselves out to mercenary groups that will cart them from planet to planet, galaxy to galaxy. In addition, their natural ease at adapting to biotic enhancements makes them highly in demand. The fact that Nyxir hasn’t been placed already confuses him. Until he studies the little merchant at the maiden’s side and suddenly realizes that Larleed Bar probably hasn’t looked for a posting for the Asari, perhaps even blocking inquiries into her availability. The Volus is keeping her close, again for no reason that comes easily to his mind, and he has to force himself to keep his jaws tightly together to prevent himself from asking the merchant why.

“All right,” the Volus says, reaching toward the panel that will activate the door, “here we go.”

The dual, sliding doors _whoosh_ to their respective sides, revealing an expansive work space designed to accommodate a number of smaller space vehicles when they are in need of upgrades or repairs. Glancing quickly down the row, Quoyah once again questions why he has been made part of this negotiation, because there is nothing in the repair hanger that seems at all appropriate for interplanetary space flight. The nearest ship to them is a smaller mining frigate, used on the floating rocks that make up most asteroid belts to extract any precious minerals that the surveying scans have located. It appears to be a perfectly serviceable ship, but its rate of travel — even with the distance jumps provided by the mass relays — would severely extend the time required to shuttle between stations. He immediately rejects that ship and then the flashy, two-seat vehicle that is being further customized for someone’s use on-planet. In fact, studying all the ships in the maintenance bay, he cannot find even one that would meet the Volus’s requirements for space travel.

Bar starts into the hangar, the Volus’s feet moving even more quickly when the scent of a deal is in the air. Quoyah follows at a respectful distance, his role having been described to him as a “menacing, muscle type” — which he finds deeply ironic, considering his lean, wiry frame. His eyes scan deeper into the shadows of the bay, and that oppressive awareness of the specter of death returns. Swallowing hard, he struggles with the itching need to feel his laser pistol in his hand, but Larleed Bar has ordered him to leave his weapons behind. As an alternative, he scans the hangar again, looking for anything that he can use if he needs to fight: a little smile of satisfaction pulls at his lips when he realizes how many effective options there are lying around the surfaces in the maintenance bays.

“We’re here!” the Volus calls out, the electronically filtered voice bouncing erratically in the vast space.”

“I know, I know,” a male voice calls back. “Keep your suit on, Larleed. God knows you wouldn’t be able to work your way out from under a three-ton drive any faster, you blob of space grease …”

It is the voice that triggers it, the memory that takes hold of him. Then all he can do is remember …

_“Whatta you doin’ down here? This is the engine room. It’s not on the regularly scheduled tour of the ship.”_

_He looks around at the tall, wide man who is speaking to him, his eyes blinking slowly in an effort to bring himself out of the stupor caused by proximity to the engine. Not because it is any great marvel of engineering, but because it is warm. For the first time in all his days off the home-world of the Hanar, he can truly say that he feels “warm.” Not heated enough to walk away, but finally comfortable in the chill that lurks on the other side of the metal bulwarks and insulation that surrounds him. The sub-zero chill of space. The ice of the void._

_Quoyah shakes himself and looks again at the human male who has spoken to him. The man is tall, even taller than he is, and he has been told many times that he has a greater height than other members of his species. The hair on top of the man’s head is as black as the void outside and, just like it, is dotted with the white of a hundred distant suns — stars, the humans call them — especially around of the man’s ears. The face is lined, across the forehead and around the green-brown eyes, but Quoyah sees more humor in those marks than anger. A long, crooked nose with a pronounced bump in the center divides the face, and the man’s lips are narrow, pressed together to control the irritation that he is obviously feeling._

_But it is the bulk of the man that impresses itself on Quoyah the most — the sheer mass of muscle that the human carries with such ease. Drell are lithe and quick, their strength hidden from those who observe them, their bodies made for bursts of intense activity to protect themselves or complete a task. This human, this male: he is designed for the work of a long day. The continual lift of heavy machine parts and the strain of twisting and pounding with the tools of his trade. Quoyah believes that he could get the drop on him in a fight, but that the man would even more easily crush the life from his body._

_“I apologize,” he says just above the throbbing pulse of the engine. “I had not meant to intrude on your work space.”_

_The man considers him for a long moment. “Drell, huh?” he asks, placing one thumb near his mouth and chewing solemnly on the edge of it. “Cabin not quite hot enough for you, no matter what you do?”_

_His eyes widen in surprise. “Yes, it is so._

_The man shrugs and turns, taking a few steps away from him. When he realizes that he is not being followed, he stops, looking back over his shoulder._

_“Well, come on,” he says, making a quick motion to encourage Quoyah to join him, which he does, trailing along and curiously listening to the man’s chatter. “It’s not like I haven’t had this happen before. When you’re the engineer on any number of spacecraft, you get your fair share of Drell looking to warm up. Had this one time when the guy was feeling so cold, he actually climbed up on the housing and slept there for the rest of the trip. Craziest damned thing, but he told me that it was the most comfortable he’d been since he left Kahje — like, thirty years before I met him. My name is Mikel Galygin, by the way.”_

_He extends a beefy hand toward Quoyah, which the Drell accepts and with one of his own, feeling that his fingers are swallowed in the firm grip. “Quoyah Faha,” he replies._

_“Glad to know you, Quoyah,” Mikel says, dropping his hand to reach toward the panel to a room just off the engineering sector. The heavy, protective door grinds open reluctantly, either because it is rarely used or the shielding has added too much weight for the motors to move it easily. “Might have to replace those servos if you’re going to be in and out much,” he mutters to himself. “This is the radiation room, used only in case of emergency — core meltdowns, coolant leaks — you know, that kind of stuff. Nobody comes in here, mostly because it’s just for emergencies, of course, but also because most of the other species think that it’s too hot. I do, too, but then again, I don’t have to stay in here. You can have it for the rest of your trip.”_

_Quoyah blinks slowly, allowing his eyes to search though the small, utilitarian space, feeling the radiant heat from the engines lick across his skin. One wall is lined with a stack of three bunks, and the center is filled with a table with four chairs arranged around it. There is nothing inviting about this space, but there is also nothing artificial about the burning power rising from the raw pulse of the engines. He feels his own heartbeat adjust to throb in time with the thumping beat of the rotors and sighs in satisfaction._

_“Are you certain?” he asks Mikel, tearing his eyes away from the space where he knows he will sleep. “I would not want your generosity to get you in trouble.”_

_The man shrugs his wide shoulders and chuckles lightly. “Wouldn’t be the first time; won’t be the last. And eventually, they’ll understand why I did it. Better for them in the long run, too, since they won’t have to worry about your superheating your cabin while you’re aboard.”_

_The man’s hand lands heavily on Quoyah’s shoulder. “Need any help with your gear?” Mikel asks …_

A hand lands heavily on his shoulder, snapping him back into awareness of his surroundings, and he looks up into the green-brown eyes of Mikel Galygin and smiles.

“Quoyah Faha,” the large human says, “it’s a genuine pleasure to see you again.”

The hand lingers, and then he is pulled into a crushing embrace, one of Mikel’s meaty palms slamming between his shoulder blades. He accepts the abuse, knowing that it is kindly meant, that it is the mechanic’s way of expressing his joy at seeing Quoyah again. He can hear Larleed chuckling next to them but misses what the Volus says to the stunned Calena Nyxir.

When he is released from Mikel’s grip, he turns to look at the little merchant who blinks innocently at him. “Well, if I had known that I would be facilitating such a joyful reunion, I would have done this a few days ago.”

“Don’t lie to us, Larleed,” the human laughs. “We know that you have more facts in that little head of yours than I have bolts in my tool chests. And you should know that I expect complete honesty from anyone who uses one of my ships.”

The Volus sighs heavily. “You impose the most burdensome fees, Mikel. I don’t know why I even bother bringing business to you.”

The human laughs. “It’s because you love me, of course,” he says, winking hugely at the Volus. “And because you still owe me.”

The enviro-suited head nods. “I suppose that’s it. Being a debtor is so outside my realm of experience.”

“But being beloved is so far inside it,” the big man laughs, wrapping his huge arms around the Volus and lifting the tear-drop body and whirling in a circle. Larleed giggles, a sound that Quoyah has never heard escape from the respirator before this moment. He wonders at the relationship between the mechanic and the merchant, knowing that he has never heard this story before. If finishing his vengeance hadn’t been weighing so heavily on him, he could have spent hours untying the intricate strings of the relationship between these two individuals. But the happiness between Bar and Galygin presses against him, making him feel as if he is trapped beneath the housing of an engine core.

He turns away and notices Calena standing alone with her arms crossed on her chest, her eyes as hard as the amethyst stones that many human prize. Some impulse of sympathy drives him, and he steps closer to her and says, “Which of these ships do you think that Mikel is offering for our use? I hope it is not the refitted Mako over there. It seems less than space-worthy.”

He meets her eyes and sees a deep frown crease her forehead. “Don’t be stupid,” she growls at him. “And there’s no reason why you need to try to comfort me — or whatever it is you think you’re doing. None of this has any effect on me. I’m shipping out to somewhere else with an entirely different crew as soon as I’m hired. You can do whatever you want with this hulking human for all I care.”

Looking down the long repair bay, Quoyah smiles gently to himself, thinking that her complaints are meant to misdirect him from how she is truly feeling. But he has done the best that he can in that moment, because his own impatience urges him to leave this place and be done with Larleed’s games. He gathers himself to begin the long walk back to his apartments when the Volus’s conversation with the mechanic draws his attention once again.

“You’re teasing me now, aren’t you, Mikel?” the little merchant says with a slight edginess in the voice coming from the respirator. “You promised my ship to someone else?”

The mechanic rubs one hand across the back of his neck, looking down the hangar with a look of abashed regret on his face. “Well, I can never really be certain with you, Larleed, and this other person did talk to me just after I had seen you …”

Quoyah hears the whirr of the hangar doors opening just a moment before a woman’s voice calls to Mikel. “Where’s my ship? Mikel Galygin! I need my ship now!”

Quoyah looks toward the opening, feeling every muscle in his body tighten when he sees the woman and the entourage with her. Then his heart begins to thunder double time.

The woman is the leader of the second gang.


	8. Chapter 8

It seems that his body takes action even before he can tell it to: his feet rushing across the hangar floor, one hand reaching toward a wrench that has been left out on a workbench nearby. His fingers tighten convulsively around it, and he can feel the underlying itch in his hand, the need for something besides a heavy piece of metal to be in his palm, for a flexible, fleshy throat to occupy that space. He lets his body take the lead, following the urge to propel himself toward the gang leader and her bodyguards — six of them visible to him now, perhaps more in the corridor beyond the huge doors — his legs pumping with the need to be closer.

He sees the moment when she realizes who he is, how dangerous the situation has suddenly become, and it challenges him to move faster. This is his one chance. He will not waste it.

She turns and races down the corridor, ordering four of her men to remain behind in the hopes that their overwhelming numbers will stall her approaching doom. While it is a completely reasonable choice, Quoyah knows that it will not stop or even slow him. As she disappears around the frame of the doorway, he feels his muscles tighten in anticipation of the battle ahead and leaps into the fray.

Unlike the other actors in the pretended war, all of the members of this gang are humans. He wonders at the make-up of the group for a split second before his wrench slices upward and into the arm that is holding a blast pistol in front of the bodyguard closest to him. The man grunts and turns to focus the muzzle directly at his head and then he is wrapped in a bubble of energy that lifts him from his feet and sends him end-over-end into the corridor, slamming against the far wall. Looking over his shoulder, he sees the tell-tale blue-white glow of biotic implant energy encircling the little teardrop shape of Larleed Bar. In the next instant, the whine of a blast rifle echoes through the hangar, and one of the other bodyguards slumps to the floor, clutching at her shoulder. Calena Nyxir is standing with the butt of the weapon pressed against her hip, a wicked smile spreading across her face, but he can only see her expression for an instant before Mikel Galygin shoulders past her, a blast pistol in each hand and a deep frown creasing his forehead. Another of the bodyguards collapses.

“Go! Would you get going already, Quoyah!?” the Volus screams at him, and it is all the urging he needs. The next moment, he is turning into the corridor, his eyes immediately focusing on the retreating form of the gang leader and her four remaining bodyguards. To his surprise, Usi Erocas is already ahead of him, chasing after the five gang members with her weapon in her hand. He smiles grimly and races toward his quarry.

Whether it is his own luck or the gang leader’s fear that drives her, their pursuit is limited to the back corridors and more empty spaces of the Citadel. He can hear Usi calling out for their targets to stop, reminding them that she is a C-Sec officer and issuing a warning that their failure to halt will allow her to respond with more forceful action. Quoyah is happy when they don’t listen — the inactivity that has been imposed on his body has ended and now all he can think of is moving, capturing, that moment when his flesh contacts the flesh of the gang leader. His lungs heave in the atmosphere of the Citadel, and he pushes himself forward, eager to end his hours of searching, to complete another step in his quest for vengeance.

He sees Usi suddenly dodge to one side to take shelter behind the narrow jutting frame of a doorway. The whine of a blast rifle echoes down the corridor, and he watches as part of the frame splinters and chars from the impact of the energy bolt. He locates the gang member who has dropped back from the others where he is crouched behind a stack of crates that were left in the hall. The man peers around the side of the boxes, his focus completely on the Lieutenant’s position until a Keeper busily scuttles forward in an attempt to repair the damage from the blast. The gang member looks over when the being passes, and Quoyah uses the moment to distract the man even more. Drawing back his arm, he arcs the wrench that he has been carrying so that it clatters into the corridor causing the gang member to turn and look at the noise. In that moment, the Drell rushes around the corner of the box and smashes the man’s head into the wall. Usi hurries up behind him and reaches into one of the pockets of her uniform, securing the man’s leg’s together tightly in a matter of seconds. Without even looking at him, she starts off down the corridor again.

Dashing over to where the wrench is lying on the deck, he scoops it into his hand and is about to start after the C-Sec officer when Calena comes up beside him, her rifle slung over one shoulder.

“Shouldn’t you be moving?” she asks him, skidding to a halt beside him.

Shaking his head, he starts down the corridor with the Asari at his side. “There is a small access corridor coming up. Stay with the Lieutenant.”

Calena nods and races forward, sliding her weapon over her shoulder and charging the system to be ready to fire at any moment. When Quoyah reaches the branching corridor, he waves her toward the retreating form of Usi Erocas and cuts into the passageway that will put him closer to the gang members that they are following. He expects that he will emerge at least at the same time that the leader is passing or perhaps moments after, and he pushes himself to move faster.

He is grateful that he has remembered this narrow passageway, this access corridor that is most likely meant only to provide the Keepers with a way to reach all the dark, quiet places that need their care. But his enforced inactivity has driven him to find methods to relieve his stress, and he has explored these back ways in detail. And his eidetic memory has made it even more easy for him to remember where this hall is. He races through the corridors, pushing his muscles to their very limits, dragging air into his lungs despite their tense aching.

Just before he emerges from the access, he sees the gang leader pass. Without slowing he bursts into the corridor ahead of the two remaining bodyguards who have stayed with their leader. He turns toward them, leaping upward and wrapping both of his arms around the neck of one of the men, using his upper body strength to angle his body so that he can snap the top of one boot into the other guard’s face. That man crumples, steady streams of red flowing from his broken nose, and Quoyah lands on both of his feet, twisting the shoulders of the man that he is holding and kicking the back on one of his knees so that he falls. Bringing the wrench down on the man’s head, he waits for the body to completely relax in his arms before he drops it to the floor.

The leader of the gang is only a few strides ahead of him, and he pitches the wrench at the woman’s body, striking behind one knee and causing her to stumble. In the next moment, he is upon her, his hands controlling one of her arms, his legs tangling to control hers. He hauls her to her feet and presses her back against the wall beside them. 

“Who was it?” he growls. “Who hired you to playact that gang war in the bar?”

The woman stares at him, her eyes dark and angry in her round face, her jaw working against the wrath that stirs inside of her. At least he believes that is what she is doing until she clears her throat and spits all of the liquid inside her mouth into his face. He draws back and drags one sleeve across his eyes, wiping the moisture away while his hand tightens convulsively on her arm.

“I doubt that that was necessary,” he says slowly, struggling against the anger that is screaming through his nerves. “But then, neither is this …”

Gripping both of her shoulders, he drives one knee into her midsection, deeply enjoying the harsh intake of her breath. He allows her to slump to the floor, squatting beside her so that he can meet her eyes when she finally recovers her breath.

“Now,” he repeats more slowly, “who hired you to playact that gang war in the bar?”

“Fuck off, alien!”

He frowns at her questioningly. “An interesting thought, but you do understand that you are the alien here, do you not, human? Yours is the youngest race on the Citadel. Yours is the most alien of all the species here, if only by years interacting with those who explore the universe.”  
“We may be young,” she gasps at him, “but we’re meant to be here.”

Rubbing a hand against his forehead, he says, “This is not the information that I need. Who hired you?”

“You seriously think that there is anything that I want to tell you, filth? Other than that you should just launch yourself out of an airlock and die?”

Quoyah sighs. “I will only have the patience to ask you a few more times. Afterward, I will begin creating painful sensations throughout your body. You may think that you will be able to resist, that you are strong enough to feel the pain and not cry out, or that you have ways that allow you to suffer more than other humans. But you will be wrong. I assure you: you will scream from what I will do to you. And you will tell me what I need to know.”

She looks away uncertainly, and he can see the shadow of fear cross her face. While she may believe like so many others that she is stronger than his ability to inflict pain, he knows what he can do. But he also knows that her responses will be less than reliable if he must resort to more physical methods of persuasion. Silently, he stares at her until that moment when her gaze meets his, and he can see her begin to be lost in the darkness of his large eyes. He allows her a long moment to drift away, and then he blinks his inner eyelids. When she realizes what she has just seen, she recoils in horror from him, pressing back against the smooth wall of the Citadel corridor.

“Get away from me, creature! Don’t play your alien tricks on me.”

He whispers gently to her. “Simply answer my question, and I will be gone. There is nothing else at all that I require of you.”

Quoyah watches the muscles of her jaw clench and then she looks away from him. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he sees Usi and Calena slide to a stop in the corridor, their weapons raised and aimed directly at the gang leader’s head. He nods briefly to them and turns back to the woman.

“As you can see,” he says softly, “now you are outnumbered. And my very tall friend there …” he points to the Turian, “she is a member of C-Sec. Even if there is no one specifically looking for you at this moment, I am certain that she will be able to find any number of warrants for your arrest when we take you to the security headquarters. Give me what I want, and I will let you slip through my fingers.”

Their eyes lock together again, but this time he sees the fear and anger flush into her cheeks, not the lost sensation that he is used to seeing in others eyes when they stare at him. A frown appears between her eyebrows, and she presses farther away from him, scooting against the wall just slightly to increase the distance between them.

“You may take me out of the equation, filthy alien,” she spits angrily at him, “but it will still go on. We will have everything that God has meant for us. We will take our righteous place in the universe and make the best of every planet throughout the depths of space. We will have our destiny, and not one of your species or any other will keep us from it.”

He tips his head to one side, wondering silently what this speech has to do with the information that he wants. Looking over his shoulder at Usi and Calena again, he watches while they both shrug and then turns again to his captive.

“Give me the name and go,” he whispers.

She shakes her head, but he can see that her resolve is weakening. Motioning for Calena to come closer, he rises and points at the human, watching while the Asari levels her weapon at the woman’s head.

“My friend here may not be as patient as I,” he says. “Tell me the name of the person who hired you, or we will take you away from this place and begin to interrogate you more forcefully.”

“Go fuck yourself, alien,” she repeats.

Moving as quickly as he can, he squats beside her again and wraps the fingers of one hand around her throat, pressing slowly and deliberately. The gang leader begins to gasp and claw at his hand, her eyes wild in her round face. Before she can sag unconscious, he releases the pressure. Slightly.

“Enzo Soie.”

Startled by the throaty whisper, Quoyah begins to reach for one of her shoulders to steady himself. But before his fingers contact her flesh, he sees her adjust her body and the flash of something silvery in her hand. In the next moment, there is a loud, explosive noise, and he hears a grunt from Usi. Looking over his shoulder again, he sees a blue stain spreading across the C-Sec officer’s uniform just above her hip on her right side. He is about to rise to go to her when he hears the woman speak.

“Manifest destiny!” she screams and then the bang echoes again. Quoyah suddenly feels something wet and sticky adhere to the side of his head.

Looking back at the woman, he sees that her round face has been caved in on one side and the wall behind her splattered with red, human blood, gobbets of pink flesh, and bits of white bone. The remaining eye stares at him for a moment and then seems to go blank, and the body slowly slumps to one side. He suddenly knows that there is nothing more for him here, and he spins to his feet and rushes down the corridor. Falling to his knees, he gathers Usi’s limp form in his arms.

“Matrons!” he hears Calena exclaim. “What in all the worlds did that?”

He doesn’t know — cannot care — in that moment. All he can think of is that the Turian has been injured and could be dying because of him. Searching with his fingers, he finds the wetness of Usi’s blood and the edges of the hole that the human’s weapon has ripped into the C-Sec officer’s body. Pulling his jacket open, he strips his shirt from his body and stuffs it deeply into the wound on Usi’s body. She groans at the pressure of his ministrations, and her eyelids flutter open.

“It was the silver weapon,” she groans softly so that only he can hear it. “I didn’t know what it was, but it barked and spat fire. And then I was bleeding. I should have known better.”

“No, Usi,” he replies. “I should have kept you away. I should have kept you safe.”

She laughs weakly and then winces, and he realizes that her movement has caused her pain. Looking up desperately, he sees Larleed Bar trotting down the corridor with Mikel Galygin just behind him.

“Hurry!” he calls urgently. “She is injured. We have to get her somewhere that …”

Mikel pushes past the teardrop-shaped merchant and kneels on the opposite side of Usi’s body. Slowly and carefully, the large man slips his arms behind the Turian’s shoulders and hips and slowly rises to his feet. The C-Sec officer moans loudly, and Quoyah sees her head fall onto the human’s shoulder when she loses consciousness. He also rises, pressing his hand to keep his shirt securely inside of the hole in Usi’s side until he realizes that he must allow Mikel to carry the Turian at his own pace — a pace that makes it difficult for him to maintain his pressure on the wound. He hopes that he has done enough. He hopes that she will not lose too much blood before they can find a medic for her.

He sees Larleed motion toward the mechanic and precede him down the corridor. Calena rushes after them, her blast rifle slung across her shoulder again. Looking back down at the lifeless body of the gang leader, he notices the silver weapon that has drilled a hole into his friend and has shattered half of the woman’s face into pieces. He reaches down and slides the metal into one of his pockets, his gaze lingering in uneasy fascination on the ruin of the human’s head. Finally, sighing with deeply felt regret, he turns and rushes after the retreating forms of his friends.


	9. Chapter 9

“Are you certain you know where you are going?” he calls to the Volus who is pulling them unrelentingly through the hallways of the Citadel. “We do not have time to waste …”

“I’m perfectly aware of that, Quoyah,” Larleed snaps at him, the tone of the filtered voice rising angrily from its usual even tenor-to-alto range. He is used to the little merchant snapping at him, but he has never heard that fearful edge in the voice before. Crushing his mouth closed, he trots along behind Mikel, listening for the soft groans that come from Usi’s limp body when the big mechanic misses his footing. Each time he hears her moan, he winces, feeling sympathetic pain rush through him at her discomfort.

“Why did you take the weapon?” Calena asks in a soft voice, distracting him from the spiral of his own thoughts. “Wouldn’t it have been better to have left it there for C-Sec to find, so that they would know that the woman had blown her own head off? Haven’t you put us all in more danger, because you have it in your pocket?”

He shakes his head. “No. Those corridors are rarely trafficked and not monitored, which is most likely why she chose the one we were in. I believe that the Keepers will clear up the mess before anyone else discovers the body; even if it remains there, who will connect us to the crime? And we have our numbers to witness to the truth of what happened. Including my own memory.”

Looking over at the Asari, he sees her frowning at him. “You seem awfully certain of something that’s a guess at best. Have you ever been wrong?”

The thought stops him both mentally and physically, and he stands for a moment staring after the retreating forms of Larleed, Mikel, and the unconscious Usi. Of course he has been wrong, he thinks; of course there have been moments when he has failed, when everything that he believed about a situation was incorrect and all his well-formed plans shattered to pieces around him. Staring into the fresh face that is looking back at him, he realizes how truly young and inexperienced Calena Nyxir is, how much she still has to learn in her maiden years, before she transitions to the matron phase of her existence. He remembers when he had that same inability to trust the decisions of the elders around him, when he found it hard to understand that they could follow multiple lines of reasoning at the same time and come to logical conclusions based on their experiences with other species. Shaking his head, he spurs himself forward again.

“Trust me,” he says and looks over at her.

She frowns back at him. “Seriously? That’s it?” Her brow tightens together again. “You’re worse than the matriarchs.”

“I do not see how that could be possible,” he replies. “I have no expectations of your life, after all.”

“You don’t?” she asks incredulously.

Shaking his head, he answers, “How could I? You will be gone as soon as you find your next posting.”

She falls away from the corner of his eye, and he has to look over his shoulder to find her standing frozen in the corridor. Without slowing his pace, he leaves her to deal with whatever thoughts have stalled her behind him, and his mind races back to his worries about Usi and the wound that she suffered from the weapon of the gang leader. He prods himself forward so that he can trot along side Mikel and his unconscious burden again, itching to be wherever it is that Larleed is leading them.

“Here!” the Volus suddenly says, jamming one hand onto the access panel. When the door fails to slide open, Bar presses the same hand to the sensor again and leaves it there, leaning weight against the pad until a voice echoes through the little speaker above it.

“Yes?” the voice asks.

“It’s Larleed. I need you. Now.”

“Larleed? Give me a few minutes.”

“You have ten seconds. Starting now.”

The intercom falls silent, but almost immediately the door slips open. Mikel shoulders past the merchant and carefully deposits the Turian’s body on a tall, bare table in the center of the room. Quoyah hears the soft groan that escapes from Usi’s body, an expression of the pain that rouses her to consciousness. Rushing to her side, he checks on the shirt that he has packed into her wound and sees that it is soaked dark blue with her blood. 

Larleed Bar moves to the inner door and begins pounding on it unceasingly. “Get your ass out here now,” the Volus calls through the barrier. “When I said that I needed you, I wasn’t kidding.”

Quoyah hears the C-Sec officer groan and looks up to meet her yellow-orange eyes. “I have always hoped to die in peace and quiet,” she whispers, one hand moving to hover above her wound. “Not with pounding all around me. Inside and out.”

Smiling gently, he takes the hand that lingers — wanting to touch her injury and fearing the pain that the action might cause — and grips it tightly. “Perhaps we should take it as a sign that you are not about to die then, Lieutenant Erocas. I will be more afraid when we are surrounded by tranquility and silence.”

A gasping chuckle escapes her and then she moans deeply. “Please, don’t make me laugh, Quoyah. You’ll kill me even faster if you do.”

“At least I will have stopped your following me everywhere I go.”

“I’ve heard that some humans believe that, after you die, your essence can come back and haunt those who were cruel to you in your living years,” she teases in a low voice. “You may never escape me now.”

He is about to respond when the door to the sleeping chamber slides open, and Quoyah sees a tall Quarian step into the room, encased in a form-fitting environmental suit designed to protect from the hazards that affect the species’ compromised immune systems. With a quick glance, the male assesses the situation and moves to displace the Drell at Usi’s side. Before he is forced to drop her hand, he gives it a quick squeeze, but he is urged into moving away, still waiting for that moment when she presses his fingers back.

The Quarian looks at the cloth packed into the lieutenant’s side and moves to a cabinet on one wall, shouldering past Mikel to open a door and pull out a packet of supplies. The helmeted head turns and considers the large human and then the Quarian returns to the table.

“You can stay,” he says over his shoulder to Mikel. “I might need you to hold the Turian down during the procedure. Everyone else should wait in the corridor.”

“No,” Quoyah says shortly. “I must stay with her.”

“If you get in my way,” the Quarian says, equally shortly, “she dies. It’s safer if you simply wait outside.”

He is about to argue further when Mikel steps up beside him and uses his huge bulk to move him toward the door. Larleed passes into the corridor before him, and he sees Calena waiting with her rifle clutched tightly in her hands, scanning up and down the corridor for the next threat.

“I swear I’ll take care of her,” the human says.

“We’ll be waiting,” Larleed replies, and Quoyah feels his eidetic memory click. Without desiring to, he remembers …

_“We’ll be waiting,” Mikel calls to him as he walks away from the cruiser that has brought him to this assignment. “The captain has his orders from the Hanar — and his payment — so he’s relatively happy. Just try not to take too long.”_

_Quoyah looks back at the human and waves to acknowledge that he has heard his warning. Turning to the ramp leading from the dock where the ship has been magnetically locked in place, he tugs at the hem of his jacket and quickly checks the items in his pockets. When he has confirmed that everything he needs is where it belongs, he moves to the end of the walkway, pausing when he sees a group of armed Turians escorting a uniformed male toward the lifts that will take them to the estate. As much as he desires to finish this assignment and return to Kahje, he tells himself to be patient and breathes in deeply, waiting for the Turians to pass._

_“I don’t have time for this,” complains the armored male in the center of the group. “Someone contact that bitch and make certain that I see her first. That artifact must be mine.”_

_“We’ve tried a number of times to get you a private interview with the seller, sir,” another male voice replies. “She isn’t making appointments with anyone.”_

_“Try again. Try every ten minutes if you have to. There has to be a way.”_

_Slipping onto the gantry, Quoyah follows the Turians to the lift, trying to ignore the impatience of the leader and the growing despair that he senses from the other members of the party. He stands behind the group when they all wait for the elevator to arrive, and the Turian leader continues to pressure his subordinates into somehow achieving the impossible. He tries to shut out the noise, ignoring the Turians as much as they are ignoring him._

_The doors to the lift slip open, and he moves forward to join the group in an open space near the front. As he is stepping into the car, an arm shoots out and blocks his pathway. Looking up into the face of the guard, he smiles gently._

_“Tell him to get the next one,” the leader says impatiently._

_“Sir,” a female voice interrupts, “there’s plenty of room for …”_

_He hears the smack of body parts meeting and hears a grunt of pain from one of the Turians in the lift compartment. Stepping back from the doors, he raises his hands and looks into the darkly striped face of the leader of the group. Without breaking his steady gaze, he allows the doors to slide closed, the last thing that he sees being the icy blue eyes of the demanding male Turian._

_When the elevator has slipped away, he takes in a deep breath and lets it out again on a long sigh. Because the dock system is in the thinner atmospheres of the planet to help many of the larger spacecraft achieve separation from the planet’s gravity much more easily, he waits for many minutes before the lift returns. In the meantime, he stills the anger that has stirred inside of him, knowing that it will only reduce his ability to complete the task that he has been assigned by the Hanar. Pulling his datapad from a pocket, he reviews the information that he has been given by his interpreter: if he had been outfitted with biotics that allowed him to understand their method of communication, he would have been able to simply use his memory to replay the interaction with the Hanar who had given him this assignment. The fact is, he could have replayed his memory of the data feed, but something about holding the device in his hand helps him connect to the demand that his handlers have placed on him. He slowly scrolls through the pages, trying once again to find one iota of information that will help him secure what he has been sent for, but there is nothing obvious to help him. Sighing once again, he slides the datapad into its pocket just as the elevator’s doors slide open._

_One of the Turians is standing in the compartment, her face lined with jagged stripes from the back of her head to the edges of her mouth, a long trickle of blue blood slipping down beside a mandible. Avoiding his eyes, she moves to pass him, but he reaches out and takes her arm._

_“Thank you,” he says softly, slipping a hand into one of his pockets and extending a soft piece of cloth toward her._

_Surprised, she meets his gaze, and he stares into her orange-colored eyes …_

He blinks slowly with both sets of eyelids and looks down into the lenses that cover Larleed Bar’s eyes in the suit. “I know her,” he says uncertainly. “We had met before.”

Tilting the enviro-suited head to one side, Bar says, “Indeed. When would that have been?”

“It was only a moment. On my first assignment for the Hanar. She had been injured by another of the guards, and I gave her a cloth for the blood,” he stares at the closed door. “Why have I only remembered now?”

“I think, my friend,” Larleed says slowly, “that there are many things about that day that we all want to forget. And most of the days that followed.”

Quoyah nods sadly, rubbing one hand across the back of his neck and leaning against the wall of the corridor. Suddenly feeling completely drained of energy, he allows his body to slide down until he is squatting next to the door, his eyes tightly closed against the glare from the lights in the hall. The little Volus reaches over and pats his shoulder, and Quoyah silently accepts the sympathy that the action is meant to convey.

“You can probably put that away, Calena dear,” he hears Larleed say to the Asari maiden. “I don’t think there are any members of the gang still following us. And you’ll only make the C-Sec officers angry if they ever manage to find us here.”

She begins to answer when a scream of pain leaks into the corridor, echoing for a few moments before it settles around them in a cloak of uncertainty. Quoyah squeezes his eyes together more tightly, willing himself to stay where he is, fighting the urge to rise and rush through the door to rescue the Turian from her suffering. Larleed softly moans in sympathy, and he can hear Calena choke on the words that she was about to utter. In a few moments, she clears her throat.

“Who is he? Does he really know what he’s doing,” she asks, “or is he just guessing? I didn’t know that Quarians had expertise in Turian biology.”

He can hear the shrug in the Volus’s voice when it comes through the respirator. “He’s one of the best medics that I’ve ever known. His name is Praz’Hali nar Zephyne.”

“Nar?” the Asari gasps. “You mean he hasn’t completed his pilgrimage?”

“He hasn’t. Then again, he has a very specific goal in mind that he wants to attain. He’s searching for a way to release the Quarians from their environmental suits.”

Surprise forces Quoyah’s eyes open, and he looks up at Larleed. “Ambitious,” he says admiringly. “I assume he has come to you for help. For information from you or through the Shadow Broker?”

“No, that wasn’t it,” Bar replies. “We met through my legitimate business when he asked me to upgrade his environmental suit. He needed thinner gloves with more advanced sensors, because the standard Quarian-issue is meant for space travel, not surgery. And he had found that his interest in physiology and genetics made him an excellent candidate for medic on any number of space freighters and transports. That’s how he has financed his pilgrimage.”

“Ambitious _and_ smart,” Quoyah says, pushing himself upright and tugging his clothing back into place. He feels the gang leader’s weapon bump against his leg and reaches into the large pocket where he deposited it. Wrapping his long fingers around what feels like a handle, he brings it into the light and begins to examine it. Both Calena and Larleed move closer to look at the weapon in his hands.

“You are the expert, Larleed,” he says after he has studied what appears to be some kind of pistol, albeit not an energy-based system like most species typically use. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

The enviro-suited head shakes from side to side. “Not in actual use. I’ve seen catalogs of ancient Earth weapons, however. There’s still a market for replicas and the demand for some of the older armaments among collectors can be remarkably high. This weapon …” Reaching one hand to delicately lift the pistol from Quoyah’s palms, Larleed turns the small weapon from side to side before returning it to the Drell’s hands. “This weapon is not a replica. I would assume it was some kind of heirloom from the gang leader’s family.”

“Why would you say that?” Calena asks, one finger reaching reluctantly toward the weapon as if her touch might make it bark and explode in fiery wrath again.

“There’s an engraving on one side. Earth language characters. There are only three, so I assume that they are some kind of family or clan marking.”

“How does it work?” the Asari maiden asks in wondering curiosity.

“Concussion from this piece here,” the Volus replies, “sparks an explosion that propels a projectile from this pipe.” Quoyah can hear the quiet pride in Bar’s voice, encapsulated in the explanation of alien technology by an expert on weapons and armor production. Taking the weapon from the Drell again, Larleed presses a catch that releases a sliding compartment containing the projectiles. Calena gasps in amazement and snatches her fingers away from the pistol.

“Yes, yes,” Bar says, laying the pieces of the weapon on Quoyah’s palms again. “It’s probably best that we all just leave this thing alone. Considering that we know exactly what it can do.”

Sliding the separated pieces of the weapon back into his pocket, Quoyah hears the door beside him open and looks over to see Praz’Hali nar Zephyne step into the corridor. He is meticulously wiping his hands on a white towel that has begun to turn light blue as the Quarian removes the last traces of Usi’s blood from the gloves of his environmental suit. Quoyah hears the medic sigh through the respirator’s speaker and mentally braces himself to hear what Praz’Hali will say.

“I was able to remove this …” he says, holding his hand open to show them the deformed projectile that had ripped into the Turian’s body. “And I stitched the flesh back together. Unfortunately, the Turian’s carapace was damaged, but I placed a specialized cement in the break that will cover the opening permanently. I’ve given her as much of a sedative as I dare, not knowing her exact tolerance for medications, but I’m hoping that she’ll sleep through the rest of the day.”

“And she’ll live?” Calena asks impatiently. “Matrons! Do you know whether she’ll live or not?”

The Quarian lifts his shoulders in a reluctant shrug. “I’ve done the best that I can for her. Only she can do the rest.”

Quoyah sighs, turning his head so that he can look down the corridor and steady the sudden throbbing beat of his heart. After all the time that she has maintained her surveillance of him, he knows that she is too stubborn to die from this injury. She will live. He is certain of it.

“Larleed?” Praz’Hali questions behind him. “You said that she was the only one who was injured. What happened to your friend?”

Quoyah turns to see that the Quarian is staring at him, at his head in particular, and he reaches with his long fingers until he touches something sticky. Pulling his hand away, he sees that the tips are stained red with the blood of the dead woman.

“It is her blood and brain matter,” he tries to reassure Praz’Hali, “the one who injured Lieutenant Erocas. After she fired her weapon at Usi, she turned it on herself and blew a hole in her head. She is dead now.”

The Quarian extends the towel in his hands toward him, and Quoyah accepts it, rubbing it against his skull in order to remove as much of the gang leader’s destroyed body parts as he can. Still using the piece of cloth, he moves past Praz’Hali and toward the table where Lieutenant Erocas is lying, still and silent, the area around her eyes drained to an ashy blue-grey. He meets Mikel’s reddened eyes and sees the trails of tears across the big man’s cheeks. Reaching up, he wraps his finger around one of the mechanic’s shoulders and squeezes. Mikel sighs and nods in an unspoken understanding of something that the Drell has not shared with him. But Quoyah knows what it is.

That she will live. Lieutenant Usi Erocas will live.


	10. Chapter 10

He watches as Usi Erocas squirms on his bed, her enforced idleness finding some type of relief when she shifts from side to side. Praz’Hali nar Zephyne has agreed that it would be best for the Turian to recuperate in Quoyah’s apartments — so that there will be someone to watch her. The Quarian also doesn’t have the space in his small rooms, especially because he is known in the back corridors of the Citadel to provide medical treatment that won’t be reported to C-Sec. It has been a week since Mikel carried her unconscious, heavily bandaged body through the sliding door of his apartments, and Quoyah has taken up the position of nursemaid to Lieutenant Erocas. This is not the first time that he has watched the Turian shift in uncomfortable impatience, but it may be one of the first times that he hasn’t been a cause of it.

At this moment, he is almost certain that the questioning that she is undergoing is what is making her so uncomfortable. The Turian investigator who had interrogated him — Saren Arterius — is asking her for details about her surveillance of his activities and how she has been injured. Quoyah assumes that the C-Sec official was alerted when Usi’s regular reports stopped coming in, but he is certain that the investigator is more than a little surprised to find Lieutenant Erocas recuperating in the apartments of the individual whom she had been assigned to follow.

Arterius’s continuing confusion and discomfort with the lieutenant’s situation amuses him. He has already stared Saren down once — when he opened his door to find the suspicious Turian on the other side. And he has refused to leave the doorway to his bedchamber while the interrogation has progressed, which has earned him a number of sidelong glares from the investigator. He will not be moved, however, and leans casually against the frame, preventing the servos in the mechanism from closing the door.

“Can we go over this one more time, Lieutenant?” Arterius asks, an edge of impatient anger coloring his voice. “Your last report stated that you believed that Quoyah Faha had no further information on the second gang involved in the abduction of the Salarian. He had no firm leads to follow.”

“Yes, sir,” Erocas replies, the fingers of one hand picking at the coverlet that is draped over her legs. “There was no indication when I tailed the suspect to the mechanicals hangars that there would be any type of altercation. I had no idea that any members of the second gang would be there.”

Saren taps the tip of one finger against the edge of his datapad, his impatience revealing itself in smaller ways than Usi’s does. Quoyah has to repress the need to smile at the Turian, a perverse desire to needle the investigator gripping him as he listens to the questions that Arterius is asking once again. Out of respect for the lieutenant, he has remained silent, even when Saren has looked toward him to clarify the report. He feels no responsibility to assist either of the Turians in this situation, but he does regret that Usi’s recuperative peace has been shattered.

“If there was no reason to believe that the gang members would be in that hangar,” Saren continues, “why did the suspect include so many people in the group that went there? He could have gone alone if there was nothing to be alarmed about.”

“Quoyah Faha was not the one who made the decision to go to the hangar. Larleed Bar set up the appointment and brought along the individuals he chose. The Drell wasn’t responsible for who was there or for even being there himself. The Volus made those arrangements.”

“Do you think that Bar knew that the gang members would be there?” Saren presses. “How did he come by this information?”

Usi lifts her shoulders, and Quoyah sees her look over at him. Shaking his head slightly, he stills the urge to agree with her and perhaps redirect Arterius’s attention to himself. She is the C-Sec officer, after all, and she is the one who is responsible for reporting his activities to her superiors. It is better for him if she no longer follows in his every footstep, if the peacekeepers no longer take an interest in his movements. And after what has happened, he knows that it will be better for her if she is transferred to another assignment.

“You’re talking about Larleed Bar, Investigator,” Usi says with a slight edge to her voice. “That little Volus has more ways of getting the information that is needed than …”

“I don’t need a lesson on the …” Saren stops himself suddenly, and Quoyah sees the Turian’s fingers tighten around his datapad. “Merchant Bar is well known throughout C-Sec, Lieutenant. I’m simply remarking on the incredible coincidence of the gang members arriving at that particular hangar at the same moment that your suspect did.”

Usi sighs, and Quoyah tenses and quickly studies the area around her eyes. He has found that it is a useful tool for determining how tired the Turian is, especially since he has spent so much time trying to keep her still so that she can heal. At the moment, though, her eye stripes are dark and black, not grey with exhaustion or blue from embarrassment. He lets himself relax against the door frame, listening to the soft whine of the servo motors as they work against the pressure of his shoulder to try to complete their job. He thinks that he should find his datapad and override the programming so that the door goes into a rest mode, but he’s too interested in making Saren as uncomfortable as possible. And in protecting Usi from his questioning.

“Whether Bar planned the meeting with the gang members or not, I can’t guess, sir,” she admits once again, as slowly as she had the first time she had given her report to the investigator. “All I know is that the merchant was there to negotiate for a ship that the gang leader believed was secured for her personal use. I was told this after … after I woke up here. Larleed was very forthcoming about the details.”

He forces himself to keep a placid look on his face, suppressing the urge to smile broadly at the memory of Larleed Bar crowing to Usi about the success of the operation. Of course the Volus would brag: except for the C-Sec officer’s injury, everything had gone exactly the way the little merchant had imagined that it would. He is certain Bar thought that it was an exciting tale to help the Turian through the long hours of her recuperation, but he is less positive that the Volus intended for Usi to share any of this information with C-Sec. Or maybe it is _all_ meant to get back to the peacekeepers. Knowing Larleed, it’s an equally likely possibility.

“Lieutenant,” Arterius says, “I hope that you can limit your report to your own experiences in the future. The hearsay of a known criminal element is less than reliable and will not be used to identify the kidnappers that we’re investigating in this case.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Erocas says. “After the suspect began his pursuit of the gang members, I followed. I observed Faha eliminate a number of the men he was chasing, but I lost him at some point. The Asari maiden, Calena Nyxir joined me. When we found the suspect again, he was questioning the human woman who was the leader of the gang. He … he used the presence of myself and the Asari to threaten the woman. While he was questioning her, she drew a weapon and shot me, and then she shot herself.”

Saren’s fingers begin tapping against the side of the datapad again. “Can you describe this weapon, lieutenant? Do you know what happened to it?”

He sees the area around Usi’s eyes pale to an ashy grey, and he pushes away from the door frame and steps closer to his bed. Looking up quickly, Erocas sees him move and meets his eyes, raising one hand to stop him from coming any closer. Quoyah understands that it is more the memory of that moment when the weapon’s projectile ripped through her flesh than the question that Arterius asks that causes her this pain. So many people discount the power of memory to force an individual to relive a moment in every agonizing detail. And the majority of the Turian’s experience with the weapon involves her own pain. For a long moment, he studies her face, ignoring the quiet _swish_ as the door to his bedroom slides closed behind him. When he is certain that the memory has passed, he looks over at the investigator, clearing his throat to get Saren Arterius’s attention.

“I think that the Lieutenant has already answered these questions for you, Investigator Arterius,” he says as politely as he can. “Perhaps, if you need an accurate recounting of the … altercation … you could allow me to …”

“Quoyah Faha, you are a suspect in the disappearance of two citizens of the Citadel at the moment,” Arterius says, the threat very obvious in the Turian’s words. “Your last interrogation was of no help to the members of C-Sec in their efforts, and we believe that you may have been involved with the smuggling efforts of one of the gangs that was involved in the fight at the bar. Any information that we gain from you, therefore, is tainted.”

He blinks slowly, absorbing the suspicions that have festered in the mind of C-Sec’s investigator. Suddenly, the urge to laugh in Saren’s smug face grips him: he had meant for his discovery of the smuggled goods to repair Usi Erocas’s reputation with the security forces, perhaps get her reinstated to duties that didn’t involve following him throughout the back corridors of the space station. It has not occurred to him that the peacekeepers — or Investigator Arterius himself — would somehow mistakenly connect the gang’s cache of contraband to his own activities. How Saren arrived at the conclusion that he helped the gang amass their store of munitions and then turned all of it in to C-Sec nearly escapes his ability to comprehend it.

Nearly. Looking into the investigator’s angrily suspicious face, he begins to understand the Turian’s frustration. The Salarian is lost to Arterius, and the two sources of leads for the investigator have disappeared. Unfortunately, his own efforts to find the gang leaders and the ones who hired them are the only way that Saren will discover more, and he has little or no interest in helping the Turian at the moment.

He is so focused on Arterius that he doesn’t see Usi rise from the bed. Swiveling to look at her, he sees the stripes around her eyes flaring brilliant navy with the anger that also tinges her voice. “Quoyah Faha has been nothing but forthcoming with C-Sec, sir. And there’s certainly no reason to suspect him of anything other than trying to find the individuals responsible for the gang battle and the death of his Asari companion. Your suspicions are contemptible …”

“Lieutenant Erocas!” Saren snaps. “Your opinions are not relevant to your report. You may keep them to yourself.”

Usi stops herself for a moment, and Quoyah sees her wobble from side to side. He is about to go to her when she meets his gaze and makes a small motion with the hand that is closest to him — and obscured from Saren Arterius’s view by her own body. Stilling himself to motionless anxiety, he watches her closely as she turns to address the investigator again.

“Whether you want my opinions or not, Investigator Arterius,” she says, her hands clenching and relaxing at her sides, “I will not allow you to question the honesty of this individual or the accuracy of my own reporting.”

Looking over at Saren, he sees the kind of telltale blue flush rise around the Turian’s eyes that he has seen repeatedly on Usi’s own face. But there are more signs that indicate to him that the junior C-Sec officer may have gone too far. Arterius’s fingers are gripped around the edges of his datapad, and Quoyah can hear the faint crackle of the polymers as they strain against the pressure of Saren’s hands. The mandibles around the Turian’s mouth quiver with repressed fury, and Quoyah can feel every muscle in his body tighten in anticipation of the fight that seems ready to begin at any moment.

It takes a few long moments, but Saren controls his temper, the area around his eyes returning to their usual ebony darkness. “You may expect that I will be discussing your reassignment with my superiors when I return to C-Sec, Lieutenant Erocas.” His words drip venom, and Quoyah sees Usi flinch away from them. She does not, however, drop her gaze from Saren’s or collapse onto the bed.

“I would expect exactly that from you, Saren,” she hisses softly. “So just go and do whatever you think is right.”

Quoyah watches for a moment while Arterius moves to the door, but his concern for Usi distracts him. Hurrying to her side, he takes one of her arms and silently urges her back into the bed. The murmur of voices echoes in his other room, but he ignores it until Larleed Bar walks into the bedroom.

“Usi, darling!” the Volus exclaims. “You’re up? My goodness, the recuperative powers of the Turian! I thought Praz’Hali said that you should be in bed for at least another week.”

“Yes, she should,” Quoyah says, tugging on the arm that he is holding. Usi ignores him, staring at the door that has closed behind Larleed and separated her from the retreating figure of Saren Arterius. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was just coming to visit,” the voice coming through the respirator replies, “and that nice Turian let me in. So convenient.”

Usi allows a harsh, barking laugh to escape from her, but it is almost immediately followed by a gasp of pain. Finally, she looks at Quoyah and then allows him to guide her back onto the bed. “Nice?” she questions Larleed. “That’s not a word that I associate with Saren Arterius. Ever.”

The Volus studies her and then agrees. “Never, ever, right, my dear? He wasn’t looking at all pleasant when he stormed past me. What did you do to him?”

Quoyah replies for the C-Sec officer while he repositions the pillows behind Usi’s shoulders. “She told him that he was contemptible for thinking that I would lie to a member of the Citadel’s security forces,” he says, pulling the coverlet back up over her legs.

“But of course he lied to Saren,” Larleed chuckles. “Everyone lies to C-Sec.”

Looking up, he sees Usi turn her face away from his gaze. “You’re not helping, Larleed. It isn’t that I lied to him as much as I omitted certain facts that helped us get to the gang leaders before C-Sec could.”

“And get the information that we needed to track down who hired the gangs to stage their battle in the bar,” Larleed continues. “Information that I assume has still been withheld from the investigator.”

Quoyah nods and moves to the foot of the bed near the Volus. “Saren was uninterested in my version of the pursuit. He seems to believe that I was actually part of that other gang’s smuggling operation and betrayed them for some self-serving reason by turning in their contraband. Therefore, my information is tainted.”

“Quoyah, I never knew that you led a secret life here on the Citadel,” Bar exclaims, hopping excitedly from foot to foot for a moment. “Do you think that Saren suspects me of such nefarious dealings, too? Am I a master criminal in his books?”

“Larleed, you have been a master criminal to C-Sec since you set up your stall in the marketplace,” Usi replies.

The Volus sighs through the respirator of the enviro-suit and clambers onto Quoyah’s bed to settle onto the pillows next to the Turian. “I’m so happy to know that I have such an undeserved reputation with the peacekeepers.”

Crossing his arms on his chest, Quoyah says, “You would be. But you still have not told me why you are here, Larleed.”

“Patience, Quoyah, patience. I would like a few moments to bask in the knowledge that I may — at some point — become a wanted fugitive from the justice of the Citadel’s law enforcement. Thank the stars that I already secured Mikel’s ship for our use. Now we have a fast vehicle to make our get-away.”

Quoyah hears Usi giggle softly and sees her reach out to take one of the Volus’s hands in her own. “Larleed, you know that if _I’m_ traveling with you, you’re not actually _getting away_ from C-Sec at all, right?”

Bar squeezes her fingers and replies, “Details, Usi, details. Let’s picture our little crew skipping through the mass relays just ahead of a heavily armed pursuit for a few moments before you sully it with facts and the like.”

“Unfortunately,” Quoyah interrupts, “the _fact_ is that Saren’s interrogation was very stressful to Usi, and she probably needs her rest. If you’re not going to share the reason that you came visiting, Larleed, I am going to have to escort you from the room.”

“Brute,” Bar whispers, the glowing circles of the eye covers blinking in a way that Quoyah can only describe as “coquettish.” “Very well. I simply came to tell you that we have an appointment.”

“With?” Usi says suspiciously.

“Just someone that Quoyah and I both are very eager to meet,” Larleed says, slipping from the bed and coming to stand in front of him. “I’ve managed to make an appointment for Larleed Bar, merchant, and friends. With Enzo Soie of Lernaean Corporation of Earth.”


	11. Chapter 11

Hitching the strap of his pack higher on his shoulder, Quoyah crosses the interlocking gantries that lead to the large, rear ramp and doorway into Mikel’s ship. He studies the long, lean lines of the small craft while he approaches, knowing that space inside will be limited. Perhaps even more limited, because he has been told that the Volus has filled every available corner with merchandise, although Quoyah has no idea where it is to be delivered or when. Fortunately, Mikel knows him, and the mechanic will have found a place for him as close to the heat of the engines as is possible. Maybe not a spacious place, but one that is warm and dry, perfectly suited for a Drell metabolism.

He sighs and adjusts the strap of his pack again, wondering for perhaps the twentieth time this day what he has agreed to do for Larleed Bar. The Volus has promised to brief him on board, after they have completed the first jump through the mass relays, and Quoyah has accepted this delay. But it chafes at him, not knowing what Bar has planned, what wheels are turning, making him to run like a creature in a cage. He forces the thoughts to the back of his mind when his foot hits the lowered ramp of the spacecraft’s back hatch and strides toward the darkness of the hold.

“Quoyah!” Larleed’s filtered voice calls out to him, and he sees the teardrop-shaped merchant trotting out of the shadows, waving eagerly. “Right on time as usual. Here, this is for you.”

The Volus extends a datapad toward him, and Quoyah accepts it curiously, glancing down at the screen for a moment before looking over into the amber-colored discs in the environmental suit. “What is this for, Larleed? What do you want me to do with it?”

“Check them in, of course,” Bar replies, turning smartly and walking back into the hold. He studies the Volus’s receding form, noting the severe lines of the suit that the merchant has chosen and knowing that it means that Larleed’s entire focus is on the mission at hand. Smiling gently, he watches as the Volus is enveloped in the darkness of the interior of the ship, disappearing from his sight, the image of a harried businessman. 

The image. That is the important thing to Larleed Bar, and Quoyah has always understood that. But it is the image of a moment — the ephemeral realization of the Volus’s self-concept, as lasting as the garments chosen for that day’s interactions. At least today’s image is designed to help them get the ship filled with the goods that Bar is trading and get them away from the Citadel as efficiently as possible. For that, Quoyah is grateful.

He looks down at the datapad and realizes that, as much as Larleed has entrusted him with ensuring that the ship is properly stocked and staffed, there is little on the first screen to help him know who he is supposed to check onto the craft. Slipping his pack from his shoulder, he scrolls through the information — a series of container codes with enigmatic content listings such as “supplies” and “heirlooms.” The Volus’s secrecy only makes him more curious, but he isn’t here to interfere with Larleed’s business.

He is here because they are taking the next step toward unraveling the tangle that began with the death of the Asari prostitute.

It had been a surprise — a shock, in fact — when he had realized that both of the gang leaders had admitted that they were hired by the same person. The revelation has made Quoyah question everything that he remembers from that night in the bar, and he has forced himself to relive those moments again and again, trying to glean even one more shred of information from his memory. But he had been too far removed from the kidnapping, too involved in the direct action that had been meant — according to Saren Arterius — to cover the abduction of the Salarian. He has focused on the wrong things. He has missed the details that he needed.

He has failed. And Usi has been injured.

The guilt has weighed on him during all the hours that he cared for her and in the silence after she returned to her own quarters. In the darkness, stretched across the bed where she had recuperated, Quoyah has argued with himself, trying to push this sense of failure away, working to understand why he feels such an obligation to someone whose job has been to interfere in his life. But he has not found a satisfactory answer.

At least she has returned to C-Sec and will not be accompanying them to the meeting that Larleed Bar has arranged with Enzo Soie. Usi Erocas’s role in his life is finished. He has no further responsibility for her, her safety, or her happiness. She is free to go her own way, as he may now go his.

The _clack_ of boots on the metal of the gantries attracts his attention, and he looks up to see Mikel Galygin walking toward him with small, female human beside him.

“Quoyah!” the big mechanic calls to him, waving a meaty hand above his head to attract his attention. “You’re here! Welcome to my ship, my friend!”

Mikel pulls him into a friendly embrace, the hand that had waved at him pounding eagerly against his back. The female with him smiles fondly at the interaction, her hands tucked against her hips until the mechanic finally breaks away and turns toward her.

“Quoyah Faha,” he says solemnly, “this is my daughter, Iskra Galygin. Iskra, this is my good friend Quoyah.”

Iskra steps up to him, her hand extended in that Earth-human greeting that they have brought into the universe with them. He accepts her fingers in his own, awkwardly, feeling the gentle pressure that she adds to the pumping motion. Studying her oval face, he notices that her eyes are two different colors — green and blue — and that the hair on the top of her head is colored in opposite shades, green over the blue eye and blue over the green. The effect is shocking, giving Quoyah a sense of vertigo as his mind tries to reconcile the uneven sensation of the contrasting colors. Iskra is small in comparison to Mikel, the top of her head barely reaching the middle of her father’s upper arm, and every inch of her is spare, small, and compact in contrast to the hefty bulk of the mechanic. Her lush bow of a mouth quirks at him, and she drags one finger down the straight length of her nose in an unconscious motion that seems meant to challenge the doubts that may be rising in his mind.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Iskra Galygin,” he says, glancing at the datapad in his hand. “Unfortunately, Larleed Bar has not given me enough time to review this manifest of his, so I cannot …”

“Don’t worry about that, Quoyah,” Mikel says, slamming a hand into the Drell’s back. “You’re not going anywhere without us.”

He blinks slowly with both sets of eyelids. “We are not?” he asks uncertainly.

“Well, you know that you’re not leaving me behind,” the mechanic says, “considering this is my ship. I always go where my boat goes.”

Quoyah nods and looks down at the screen of the datapad in his hand, trying to scroll through the information to find Galygin’s name.

“And you’re not going anywhere without me,” a lighter voice adds. He looks up and meets the two-tone gaze of Mikel’s daughter. “Because I’m your pilot.”

“Pilot?” he asks, studying the female human again. “I had thought Mikel or I would …”

“No,” she snaps at him. “As much as _Batya_ says that it’s his ship, it’s not. It’s mine. I won it. I helped bring this wreck up to space-travel standards and designed some of the upgrades for the engines. No one takes my baby out without me at the helm.” She frowns at him and then up at her father. Raising one finger toward Mikel’s nose, she says sternly, “No one.”

The big mechanic simply shrugs and smiles pleadingly at his daughter. “It was only one time. I wanted to make sure that the engine coupling was going to hold through the mass relay. You know I wouldn’t risk your life on a trip like that. And besides, I brought it back right away.”

“Right away?” she growls at him. “You were gone almost a week. And I can still smell that awful perfume when I go into your cabin.”

“Now, princess,” Mikel responds, starting into the hold behind Quoyah, “you know that’s a lie. I’ve replaced the environmental filters three times since then …”

Quoyah can hear the _buzz_ of the banter between the two humans as they move into the ship, and his eyes finally locate the two Galygin names on the datapad. Tapping quickly beside each to register that they have boarded, he hears the banging of boots on the gantries and looks up in time to see Praz’Hali nar Zephyne pushing a wheeled metal case across the ramps. He studies the approaching Quarian for a moment before scanning the electronic list in his hand. He is still searching through the rows of descriptions when the noise of Praz’Hali’s approach stops.

“Good day, Quoyah,” the Quarian says, pausing on his way up the rear ramp into the ship.

“Praz’Hali,” he says cautiously. “Are you delivering supplies for Larleed?”

Shaking his head, he replies, “I’ve been asked to accompany Bar to the meeting that he’s arranged. He’s implied that I could learn something on this expedition that can help me on my pilgrimage.”

“Larleed Bar implies many things,” Quoyah says slowly, weighing the impact of each word before he says it. “Every moment is a challenge to understand what may or may not be true. And then in the next moment, the challenge becomes something else all together.”

Praz’Hali nar Zephyne tips his head to one side, studying him through the grey faceplate of the Quarian’s black-traced-with-silver environmental suit. “You sound as if you are warning me away from this mission, Quoyah. And normally, I would listen to advice from someone more experienced with the universe than I am. But I’ve exhausted all opportunities to advance my pilgrimage on the Citadel, and Larleed says that there may be something for me to discover …” Praz’Hali waves his hand in large, vague loops, “… out there. And he’s paying. So I’ve little choice but to join you.”

Quoyah nods in sympathy. He understands the way that Bar has of presenting a series of arguments — none of which seem reasonable when examined alone — but that create a completely logical whole that gets the Volus exactly the outcome that has always been planned. Besides, if his current adventures are any gauge of the future, it will be wiser to have a trained medic available to them on the ship.

“Welcome aboard, then. You will find Larleed inside, and I am certain he can direct you to your quarters.”

“Thank you,” the Quarian says, propelling the metal crate forward again. After a few steps, he stops and turns back to Quoyah. “By the way, I’m not sure that I ever actually told you what a good job you did with Lieutenant Erocas’s recuperation. My research has led me to believe that ruptures of the exoskeleton — perhaps because they are so very rare — usually fester very easily in Turians and that the fatality rate is shockingly high. I can’t be sure whether it was the care provided or simply the fact that you were able to keep her still for so many days that helped her heal so well, but I believe we both are grateful for your help.”

Praz’Hali starts away into the darkness inside of the ship, and Quoyah watches him go, squirming internally at the praise that he has received. There is too much guilt — for Usi’s injury and the fact that she was forced into his life in the first place — for him to accept that he has anything to do with the positive resolution to the wound that she received because of him. Praz’Hali’s praise only reemphasizes in Quoyah’s mind the fact that the Turian shouldn’t have been there, shouldn’t have been working to help him capture the gang leader, and shouldn’t have been injured.

Lifting a hand to his forehead, he presses his eyes closed, breathing deeply to still the gnawing ache of his own failure in his gut. He isn’t used to these feelings of guilt and regret: his missions for the Hanar have been lonely assignments, ones that he can accomplish by himself. In most cases, there is little threat of bodily injury. Physical violence can be necessary, yes, but he has often found ways to complete a task without exposing himself to harm.

Of course, this isn’t a mission for the Hanar. This is something completely different, and perhaps he needs to embrace that this is _his_ mission, _his_ vengeance, and therefore _his_ failure. Maybe it is time to accept this fact.

He massages his fingers against his forehead, trying to rest in the darkness behind his closed eyes. While the guilty whirl of his thoughts is impossible to ignore, he is able to finally tamp them down to a shadowy whisper until they are completely wiped away by the stamp of boots on the gantry to the ship. Opening his eyes, he finds Calena Nyxir tripping up the ramp, her arms filled with long, wicked-looking rifles, the strap of a large duffle clinging precariously to one shoulder. When their eyes meet, she frowns at him, and he starts toward her.

After he has slipped the data pad into one of the pockets of his spacesuit, he reaches out to take two of the weapons cradled in her arms. “I am certain there was no need to bring these, Calena,” he says. “Larleed Bar will provide whatever weapons you may need while you are with him.”

While he watches, she shifts the strap of her duffle back to a more secure position on her shoulder and shakes her head. “I don’t have a place to keep my things, because I haven’t been able to afford an apartment on the Citadel. And I don’t have any fr- …” She looks away, obviously frustrated. “I don’t have any place that’s secure enough for my stuff. So I have to bring it.”

“Come with me,” he replies, leading her toward the storage lockers just inside the hold. “You can secure your arms and armor there and then … Do you need help finding your cabin?”

The Asari maiden efficiently slots her rifles into the locker, sliding her heavy jacket off and placing it on a hook in the back. Quoyah hears the thud when her thick-soled boots hit the metal at the bottom and the *clack** of her belt of pouches when they join her other armaments. After spending a few moments repositioning her things — so that they are easily accessible at any moment he is certain — Calena turns toward him and slams the door shut.

“If you would like to enter a combination to secure the locker,” he says after the clang of the metal closing dies away, “I will give you Larleed’s datapad. Even though the code will be private to you, Bar will need it. In case.”

She frowns at him, her eyes like frosty chips of amethyst. “In case of what?”

He blinks at her, slowly, not wanting to think the thoughts that accompany the message that he has for her. “In case we have to forward them to your next of kin. In case — for some reason — you don’t return.”

“Oh,” she says blankly, but he can see the motion of her throat as she swallows hard. “I … I’ve never had enough to need it sent to next of kin before.” Lifting one hand, she places her palm on the door that hides her things from the world. “I suppose it … I suppose it would mean something to my mother to get it back.”

Pulling the datapad from the pocket where he has stowed it, Quoyah extends it toward her, but she shakes her head.

“It’s fine,” she says. “I don’t need to lock it. No one wants my things, so it’s fine the way it is.”

“Calena! My dearest!” Larleed calls to the Asari from the doorway that leads to the living area of the ship. “Let me escort you to your cabin, which I’m certain you will find perfectly satisfactory for your travels with us.”

The maiden looks over at him and quirks a smile. “Thanks,” she whispers before she resettles the strap of her duffle on her shoulder and turns to join the Volus in the doorway. Quoyah watches them go, listening to the little merchant teasing Calena until the portal slides closed, blocking them from his view. He sighs deeply and raises the datapad to check off Calena Nyxir on Larleed’s list.

They are ready. Their crew is aboard, and in moments, they will be heading toward the Citadel’s mass relay to leave everything that has happened in the last few weeks behind. He is about to cross toward the door into the ship when he hears the clack of boots on the gantry. Curious, he steps from behind some of the Volus’s merchandise and looks toward the still-open rear hatch.

Usi Erocas is walking up the ramp toward the shadowy darkness of the ship.

Quoyah stills and waits for her to cross toward him. While he is waiting for her to approach, he notices that she isn’t wearing her C-Sec uniform, although he does see a hand blaster at her side. He watches her stroll toward him, admiring the evenness of her stride, despite the lingering wound in her side.

He sees her notice him after her eyes have adjusted to the dimness of the hold, and she freezes in the middle of a stride. The area around her eyes suffuses blue, and she looks over his shoulder, as if hoping that Larleed will come through the door and save her from this meeting with him. But the portal remains stubbornly closed.

“Have you come to bid us farewell, Lieutenant Erocas?” he asks. “Are you grateful to finally be rid of us? Of me?”

She looks away from him, off at the interlocking metal walkways that lead to a variety of ships docked at the Citadel. Quoyah waits until she turns back to him and meets his eyes.

“Saren Arterius demanded that I be put on administrative leave. He claims that he wants to give me time to recover from my injury, because carapace breaches can be so dangerous for Turians. I tried to argue that I was perfectly capable of performing my duties, but my superiors chose not to believe me. Or they were overwhelmed by Saren’s reasoning. I’m not sure right now.”

Quoyah shakes his head, honestly feeling sympathy for Usi. “I am sorry to hear that. How will you spend your leave on the Citadel, then?”

She tips her head to one side, and he can see her eyes narrow while she looks at him.

“I suppose that means that Larleed didn’t tell you,” she says. “But I’m part of your crew. I’m going with you to the meeting with Enzo Soie.”


	12. Chapter 12

Quoyah leans back in the chair that he has accepted around the long table in the mess area of Mikel — more accurately, Iskra — Galygin’s ship and looks around at the other faces gathered there. They are a strange variety of individuals, and, thankfully, they have been looking to Larleed Bar for the direction that they should follow. Lingering behind it all, though, is the unspoken understanding that he is the one that they are here for and that his goals have become all of their goals. The Volus has staged the entirety of this illusion for him, to assist him on the next step of the vengeance he has yet to truly speak aloud to anyone. And still, here they are, moving through the icy vacuum of space to determine why Enzo Soie hired the two separate gangs to stage the battle in the bar on the Citadel to cover the kidnapping of the Salarian scientist.

The way before them seems clouded and uncertain, and it gnaws at him. If he were a different person, he might be able to take solace in Bar’s confident direction, the assurance that the merchant seems to feel that they will be welcomed into Soie’s office without a moment’s hesitation or suspicion. If he were a different person, he might be able to accept the assistance of these skilled and efficiently deadly individuals. If he were a different person …

Perhaps, he argues silently, it is time to take himself away from these people, to protect them from the danger that looms like the emptiness on the other side of the thick, metal walls of Galygin’s ship. He knows that he is able to follow the leads that he has gathered and that he can obtain more data from Larleed Bar when he needs it. There is no question that he is perfectly capable of continuing his vengeance on his own.

Then why this feeling that he doesn’t really want to?

It has occurred to him that, perhaps, after all these years of missions for the Hanar — missions that he has always completed alone — he has begun finally to feel the “pull” that many of his fellow Drell have described to him. An inexplicable need to be with others. Not necessarily his own kind, but individuals to build relationships with that are more than simple transactions for information to complete his missions.

In the past, he has doubted that such a thing would truly be necessary. Today, however …

“Where’s Iskra?” Calena asks, shifting uneasily in her own chair. “I thought you wanted everyone here.”

Quoyah follows her accusing gaze to Larleed Bar, who rises from the place that the Volus has chosen at one end of the table. The merchant has taken special care with the costume for this meeting, attaching a number of sheer, flowing scarves to the basic environmental suit, arranging them in artful disarray across and around, wrapping Larleed’s head in a nimbus of soft color. The effect is startling after seeing the merchant maintain a strictly business-like appearance for so much time previous to this day, but Quoyah is used to Bar’s flights and the strict ambiguity that the Volus likes to maintain.

From Calena’s gaze, she seems less accepting. A frown has settled in the center of her forehead and her fingertips tap against the surface of the table in a stuttering staccato. She seems coiled to spring — or explode — depending on the next few moments, and it makes Quoyah wonder again who this maiden is and why Larleed has tried so hard to form a bond with her. Knowing the Volus, there is something behind these intricate machinations, but he also doubts that he will ever learn the truth.

“I’m here,” Iskra’s voice interrupts his thoughts, crackling over the ship’s internal communication system. In the next instant, her face — and her bifurcated hair colors — appears on the screen behind his head. Swiveling his chair, he sees some of the displays and control systems for the ship in the picture with her. Piloting her craft, as she should.

“Sorry I can’t attend in person, Larleed,” she apologizes. “But the last reports that we had from this area said that …”

“No, no, little one,” Bar says with a dismissive wave of one hand. “We will trust you to make the best decisions for the safety of your ship and all aboard. Your lovely face on this screen is more than enough.”

“You’re already on the ship, Larleed,” the pilot answers with a little bit of a warning in her voice. “The flattery is unnecessary.”

“But so much fun, my dear,” the Volus replies with a husky laugh. “It makes you blush so adorably.”

Quoyah hasn’t noticed a particular flush to Iskra’s cheeks before Larleed teased her further, but now a soft pink steals into her face. The tint intensifies the curves of her high cheek bones and seems to make her mismatched eyes sparkle, but he isn’t willing to guess whether it’s with pleasure or anger. A light flashes, casting orange-yellow highlights across the pilot’s face and forcing her to turn away from the camera for a moment. An echo of the warning signal filters into the mess through the speaker of the intercom, and he sees Iskra toggle a switch. The noise ends.

“I’ll monitor your meeting, Larleed, and chime in if I have anything to add. Otherwise,” she says, reaching toward them in the video image on the wall, “I’m out.”

The screen returns to its still blackness.

Mikel laughs and stretches his long legs under the table in front of him. “She will one day get the best of you, Larleed.”

“Not if I can help it,” the Volus replies, carefully adjusting the lay of one of the many scarves so that it drapes down across the front of the environmental suit. The big mechanic simply laughs again and stretches his arms above his head, and Quoyah hears Calena snort softly. He wonders whether she is laughing at Larleed’s hubris or Mikel’s, but there is little time to consider the options. The Volus begins speaking again.

“As you all know,” Bar says, looking at the company gathered around the table, “I have secured an appointment with Enzo Soie at the Lernaean Corporation orbital headquarters near Mars. In fact, he specifically requested the interview.”

“What?” Usi Erocas exclaims, pushing her shoulders away from the wall where she has been leaning with her arms folded over her chest. “He _asked_ to see us?”

Larleed’s stubby fingers tug at a fold of sheer cloth for a moment. “No, not us. He requested information from the Shadow Broker. I’m being sent as a representative.”

Praz’Hali tips his head to one side and asks, “Does the Shadow Broker usually send his negotiators with such a large entourage? It seems slightly out of character for such a … reclusive … individual.”

“Information is power, children,” Larleed replies. “In some cases it is easier to gather more when you are many.”

“And in others, it is a waste of resources,” Quoyah counters softly. “There is no reason that you and I cannot …”

“There may be one,” the Volus interrupts his thought. “Your investigations into the gangs on the Citadel has not gone unnoticed, my friend. From the information we’ve gathered, Enzo Soie has instructed his security forces to detain any Drell attempting to access the headquarters space station.”

Quoyah blinks slowly with both sets of eyelids and studies the tabletop in front of him. It is indeed a complication that he will not simply be able to walk into the meeting with the human from the Lernaean Corporation, that he will be detained if he steps foot on the station. He imagines the pathways to achieving his vengeance closing around him like so many radiation hazard doors slamming shut in an emergency. Gnawing dread settles in his midsection — a fist that continually clenches and unclenches on the delicate lining of his innards. Slowly, his own hand tightens on the table, and he watches the pattern of his scales stretch against the now taut muscles beneath the green-brown pattern.

“So what are we supposed to do about that now?” Usi growls, leaning forward to press both hands onto the table and stare down its length at the Volus. “Do you think we can simply leave Quoyah on the ship while we go to this meeting? This is his …”

“Perhaps,” Larleed says, the voice coming through the speaker in the environmental suit a little louder than it usually is, “this will help.” The little merchant reaches down and presses a button on the table, activating the video screen again. A schematic — light blue, glowing lines on a field of black — begins to rotate across the display.

“Where …” Usi starts. Quoyah can almost see her C-Sec hackles rising at the thought that Larleed has illegally obtained the diagram. While she stares down the table at the Volus, he can see the area around her eyes flush to navy.

“Where did you get that?” Calena gasps, leaning forward in her chair to stare more intently at the intricate lines.

Larleed laughs. “Secrets, my dearest, secrets.”

The frown on the Asari’s face deepens for a moment, and she tosses herself back in her chair as if the fascinating display has completely lost its attraction to her. Her lower lip purses a bit, giving her the appearance of a petulant youth, pouting at the restrictions that a parent has placed on her. Pushing away the urge to laugh at the young maiden, Quoyah quickly scans the other faces at the table, and he can see the same quashing of humor around him. A smile tugs at his lips, but he doesn’t let it cross his face. He has enough years to know that it will cause more problems with Calena if she sees him enjoying her reaction.

The Volus magnifies a cross-section of the schematic and highlights a specific set of lines. “This is the berth where the ship will be docking when we reach the Lernaean headquarters. We’ll have to walk along this gantry and through a security checkpoint … here.”

“This is where we have to conveniently lose Quoyah,” Mikel says, staring at the display.

The Drell looks at the blue hashes spreading out across the screen. “I assume you have a plan,” he says, turning toward the teardrop-shaped merchant and studying the play of the lines on the video screen. When an extended silence follows his question, he feels the gnawing in his stomach tighten its grip on him. His fist on the table clenches again.

“Iskra and Mikel have analyzed the schematic in detail,” Larleed says. “I believe that they were …”

“The structure connects vertically at this strut,” the mechanic points to a slightly heavier line on the screen. “The secondary set of walkways here are designed to give mechanics access to the hulls and drive systems of large freighters for maintenance. If Quoyah were to climb down this brace, he would have access to the lower levels of the station without passing through the security check-point that will identify and detain him from proceeding.”

“You expect him to simply traipse down these flimsy poles without having anyone notice that he’s doing this?” Usi asks, aghast.

Larleed shrugs. “Perhaps we need a distraction?”

The Turian cocks her head at the merchant, the quick motions of one hand demonstrating her disbelief at what she has heard. “You expect us to be able to distract a team of well-paid, professional security forces at the headquarters of one of the largest human-run corporations in the universe?”

“You would prefer, I suppose,” Praz’Hali asks with a quiet edge of sorrow to his voice, “that we simply eliminate them by force?”

Usi straightens and crosses her arms over her chest, and Quoyah notices the dark blue that has suffused the area around her eyes. Before the Turian can say anything, Larleed begins to speak.

“Force will be a last resort, I devoutly hope,” the Volus says. “We have Calena Nyxir for our distraction.”

“I … What?” she says, startled out of her pout by this information.

Larleed nods. “You have such a lovely assortment of toys, my dear. And I’m certain that you’ll want to take almost all of them into the space station with you.”

The maiden’s brow creases. “I will? Why would I want that? They’re secured. I don’t need them with me to go to a meeting with a bureaucrat.”

A deep sigh rattles through the speaker on Bar’s environmental suit. “I suppose that that’s strictly true, Calena. But they made such a lovely, clattering mess when you first came on board the ship. And the sight of a struggling maiden, unable to carry the last possessions that she has in the world …”

“Matrons, Larleed!” she curses in her own unique way. “No matter what you seem to think, I am not helpless.”

“I would never …”

“If you think that …”

“What kind of accusation was that?” Usi asks, leaning her face very close to the helmet of Praz’Hali nar Zephyne’s environmental suit.

A furor of tiny arguments erupts around the table, and Mikel shift in his chair, trying to re-establish some order and camaraderie to the group. But even with his great size, he seems dwarfed by the determined bickering that ricochets among the passengers like the reflected rebound of a stray laser shot. While Quoyah hopes that the energy will eventually drain from the conflicting opinions around him, he realizes that — if left on their own — they will only continue until they have exhausted their energies, but reached no conclusion. Somewhere in the background, he can hear a buzzing, but he is uncertain what it is in the din of all the conversations loudly continuing around him.

Finally, he rises to his feet. His silence has set him apart from the others, and this motion attracts all of their attention. Their arguments die away.

“It is a sound plan,” he says slowly. “I would appreciate it, Calena, if you could …”

“I’ll help,” Iskra’s voice comes through the intercom. “If any of you could have stopped shouting at each other for a moment, you would have heard me trying to offer assistance.”

Mikel stops in the middle of rising to his feet and falls back into the chair behind him as if the wind that has propelled him forward has suddenly died. Calena and Larleed quickly turn to stare at the image that comes up on the monitor of Iskra’s two-tone eyes and hair, and Usi and Praz’Hali turn quickly away from each other as if burned, leaving their conversation at whatever awkward breaking point they had reached.

“Between the two of us,” Iskra says, leaning in close to the camera that transmits her image into the screen in the mess, “we should be able to give Quoyah at least a reasonable window to use the strut system to reach the lower level.”

Calena studies the human girl’s image on the screen and then nods her agreement. Larleed clasps both hands together and sighs dramatically, drawing all eyes toward the head of the table.

“Then we’re agreed,” the Volus says. “Let’s get started on the details.”


	13. Chapter 13

The metal feels cool through the thin cloth over his fingers as he carefully descends to the level below the reception deck where Larleed Bar is slowly approaching the security checkpoint. In the distance, he can hear the sounds of Iskra and Calena’s play-acting while they distract the guards until they can assume that he is safely down the struts and on his way through the lower level of the space station. The Volus merchant’s arrival at the security gate will end the game that the females are playing, and the entire party — without Mikel, who has agreed to remain on the ship despite his fear for his daughter’s safety — will continue forward together.

Except for him. One hand securely wrapped around a cross-brace, he leans away from the vertical strut and looks far down the walkway that provides access for maintenance crews to the exterior of any ship that is visiting Lernaean Corporation. Because you can never be certain of what will happen to your ship in space.

Not that there is anything wrong with the Galygins’ ship. The little craft has brought them safely through the mass relays, rocketing them from the distant Citadel to this man-made, orbital platform above the red-orange face of a planet that the humans call “Mars.” From what he has learned, it is named for a deity of a long-extinct religion, a god of war, who delighted in the chaos and carnal bloodlust of human conflict. Quoyah might have assumed from the planet’s name that it was an ancient battlefield — it’s dusty surface stained with the spilled vitality of tribe after tribe of warriors, all striving to please their insatiable master. But he knows that the mineral composition of the soil has colored its face; nothing more, nothing less.

When he has determined that there are no workers or security guards patrolling the walkway on this level, he carefully scoots around the strut and finishes his descent. Leaping gracefully to the gantry, he crouches for a moment and listens for any pursuit or indication that he has alerted the humans on this level. In the distance, he hears the everyday chatter of employees complaining about the minutiae of their living and work. Ignoring the noise, he rises to his full height and moves against the wall, keeping one shoulder close to it while he moves in the direction of the lift.

Quoyah is grateful for the accuracy of the schematics that Larleed Bar has obtained when he finds the door of the elevator, but he passes it, knowing that the security cameras for the station will be focused on spaces like the lift. Moving just a little farther, he eases open the door to the access stairway and slips inside. Pressing himself into a corner, he uses his eidetic memory to recall the discussion that he, Iskra, and Mikel had only that morning, a detailed review of the pilot’s examination of the plans and her recommendations as to how to avoid the ever-present security recording devices. The stairwell is the first major obstacle, but it is overcome with a trick of timing that will easily grant him access to the next level. Strangely enough, there are no cameras capturing the comings and goings of anyone using the stairs that lead to the third level — the “Executive Level,” according to the schematic.

Watching the swivel of the camera from his corner, he chooses his moment and is quickly up the two flights of steps and opening the door to the third floor. The Volus emissary for the Shadow Broker and his entourage will ride up to this level in the lift after they have cleared the security check, and Larleed has assured them that there will be no escort to the reception area of Enzo Soie’s office. It startles most of the other members of their group when the little merchant announces that this is not the first visit paid to the Lernaean Corporation, but Quoyah wonders why they have been surprised. The Shadow Broker must have his emissaries and his information brokers; they have known that Larleed is one. As perhaps the largest human-owned corporation in the universe, it seems completely reasonable that one source of the information that provides their power would be the Shadow Broker.

Slowly, he opens the door to the third floor, peering down the hallway first in the direction that he can see without opening it further. When he sees no one, he tugs the portal slightly wider and leans forward, checking in the other direction. Empty also.

He slips into the hallway and rapidly advances toward the first bend in his planned route. This section of the station is elaborately decorated with floors lined with beige stone with traces of red running through it and some kind of wood from floor to ceiling to cover the walls. The lighting is soft, creating shadows all around him as he hurries along. Pressing as close to one wall as he can, he moves smoothly and rapidly to the first juncture point until the sound of footsteps tapping on the stone floor reaches his ears.

There is no chatter, so he assumes that it is only one office worker, but he backs down the corridor until he finds a recessed doorway. Moving back into its deeper shadows, he waits until the human has passed him, her head tilted to read the datapad in her hands. He can hear the soft *shush** of her long, white coat as she hurries past, but she is so occupied with the information on the screen that she doesn’t look around.  
After she has gone, Quoyah slips out into the hallway again and hurries to the point where he is to meet Larleed Bar and the others. He does not immediately see them at the juncture of the two corridors, but he can hear the low rumble of voices coming from the direction of the lift. Stepping into another shadow, he waits, listening for the Volus’s voice.

“… the recent security measures,” a woman’s voice is saying evenly above the _tap_ of shoes on the stone flooring. “Of course, Lernaean Corporation always maintains one of the most highly skilled, professional …”

“Who could ever doubt that, my dear?” the Volus’s voice interrupts the young woman’s well-rehearsed reassurances to a high-level guest of the headquarters. “And while I appreciate the effort you, personally, are making to ensure that I feel safe here on the station, I would like to re-emphasize that I have been here before. I’m sure that you have many, many important responsibilities that we’re keeping you from.”

“Well,” she says, and Quoyah can hear the uncertainty in her voice. Larleed has successfully charmed another one, he thinks. “They did want me to escort you, but I had that stack …”

“Of course, I’m planning to transmit a glowing report to your supervisors about the helpfulness and dedication that you’ve shown in escorting us here. And …” the filtered voice drops to a more intimate purr, “I might even be able to get the Shadow Broker himself to send a little note of appreciation for all of the assistance that you’ve given me as his agent. Mentioning you personally, of course.”

A silence envelops the corridor for a long moment, broken only by the sound of a scoffing snort that sounds remarkably like it comes from Calena Nyxir. Quoyah feels a smile tugging at his lips, but he presses himself back into the darkness, waiting for the assistant to finally take her leave.

“Well,” she says finally, “if you feel certain that you can get to Mr. Soie’s office without my help, I would appreciate being able to get back to work. I hope that your meeting is successful.”

The tapping noise resumes, fading in the other direction in a rapid pulse that soon disappears. Checking briefly to see whether anyone else has entered the corridor, Quoyah steps from the shadow and walks to the intersection of two hallways where Larleed, Iskra, Calena, Usi, and Praz’Hali are waiting for him.

“This corridor,” Usi is saying, “is remarkably uninhabited for a major galactic corporation.”

“In this area,” the Volus replies, “we’ve entered the exclusive domain of the highest level executives of the corporation. Except for executive assistants, the other secretaries are kept in a large room closer to the lift. The executives have the most spacious offices in the station, and there are also a number of conference rooms. I am particularly grateful that Enzo Soie didn’t ask to meet me in one of those.”

“Why?” Calena asks, and Quoyah can see that her hand is clenching and unclenching in nervous rhythm, as if trying to grip the pistol that is no longer at her side. When she looks up and sees him, she twitches as if she has been startled and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Quoyah!” Larleed exclaims, waddling over to him. Today, the Volus is all business, dressed from head to toe in black with only the faintest traces of contrasting grey stitching on the environmental suit. Quoyah appreciates the seriousness that Bar’s choice of clothing represents, the matching dedication to his own desire to complete this next step and his own vengeance.

He steps up beside the merchant and sees Larleed motion to Usi. Stepping closer to the two of them, she pulls a piece of cloth from a pouch at her waist and hands it to him. He watches it tumble in a loose fall of fabric and stares at it curiously.

“It is a cloak,” he says baldly. “No one wears a cloak.”

He hears a soft chuckle from Iskra and looks over at her questioningly, seeing that she has added a cloak to her wardrobe in the time that they have been separated. While he studies her, she tugs the hood more firmly into place over her two-tone hair. “I’m wearing one. I think it adds a lot to my costume for the day. You know, flirtatious ne’er-do-well.”

Usi frowns at the human girl and then extends her arm a little farther. “In this case, you wear a cloak.”

“I do not understand,” he continues. “It will only get in my way.”

The Volus sighs, “Quoyah, dear, you’re still a Drell. Anyone can see that quite plainly. So there’s really only one question that you need to answer: do you want to be fashionable or do you want to be safe?”

He accepts the cloak and tosses it over his shoulders, sliding his arms into the sleeves and letting it settle to just above the tops of his boots. When the time comes, he knows that he will shed this distracting and ridiculous garment, but for now, it if will make Larleed happy and get them to their meeting with Enzo Soie, he will wear it.

“Hood, too,” Usi mutters, reaching for the fabric that has clumped around is neck and straightening it so that it covers his head and drops his face into shadows. He stands still for her, letting her adjust the hood until she seems satisfied that anyone casually looking at Quoyah will not be able to immediately see that he is a Drell. Larleed crosses to his side and nods approval, tugging the cloth down on his arms to cover the space between the sleeves and the tops of his gloves.

“You’ll do,” Bar says, turning back to the others gathered in the hall. “Time for you to disappear, Iskra. Have the ship waiting for us. We might be leaving the headquarters rather hastily.”

The colorful head nods shortly. “Of course, Larleed. Can’t show up for a party with more guests than are on your invitation.”

The Volus takes one of the girl’s hands and squeezes it gently. “You’re always so able to see the obvious. Thank you, my dear. Now, hurry back to the ship. But not too fast. We don’t need the security alerting Mr. Soie’s secretary that he should be expecting fewer guests than they had originally thought.”

Iskra nods and sets off down the corridor the way that the Volus and his party have come, and Quoyah watches her for a long moment, trying not to enjoy the confident sway of her hips. She is a child, he reminds himself, the daughter of his good friend, and this is no time to be thinking about anything other than the meeting that they are about to attend. He is taking the next step on his vengeance, and there is too much uncertainty about the step that will come after this one to involve anyone beyond today’s information gathering. Pressing down the memory of others telling him of their need to create relationships, he turns his head and meets the orange-yellow gaze of Usi Erocas. He hears her mandibles click and observes the worn, grey tint in the black stripes around her eyes that he has become used to while he has watched her heal. She crosses her arms over her chest, and Quoyah sees her fingers tighten on her upper arms. He wonders fleetingly what he has done to pain her, to cause the angry drain of blood from her face, but Larleed calls to him and his eyes fall from Usi’s to the lenses in the Volus’s environmental suit.

“We can’t tarry any longer,” Bar says, starting down the hallway. “And while I know that Enzo Soie wants this meeting with the Shadow Broker’s agent, it won’t do to keep him waiting.”

Nodding, Quoyah falls into step behind the Volus, and he is quickly surrounded by the others in their group. Praz’Hali and Calena match his stride at his sides, and he imagines that Usi’s orange eyes are boring into the back of his skull while she trails behind him. Shaking his head, he forces his concentration back to what is coming next — the meeting that they are about to enter with the man who hired the two rival gangs. If he allows himself to be distracted by the emotions of others or by the unspoken needs that he himself seems to be experiencing, he will lose any advantage he might have in the upcoming encounter.

Not that he feels that he particularly has any advantages. While they finish their walk to the executive office suite of Enzo Soie, he reflects that — in similar situations — he has always felt as if he were the calm in the center of the roiling wind of a storm. Today, he is less the eye and more a fallen leaf, being swirled in erratic circles by forces that he cannot control or even identify. Wrapping his fingers in the cloth of his unwanted cloak, he drags it tightly around his torso and continues following Larleed.

The Volus merchant walks confidently through the sliding doors that welcome him into the reception area for Enzo Soie’s office. The human’s assistant — also a human — looks up from the keyboard in front of him at the gentle chime that accompanies the opening of the doors and smiles at the Volus, rising to his feet.

“Mr. Bar,” the human receptionist says, “welcome to Lernaean Corporation … again.”

“Kevin!” Bar exclaims, graciously extending one hand across the desk and gripping the hand that the man offers him. “You’re looking exceptional today. Are you wearing something especially for me?”

Quoyah is studiously keeping his head turned away from the receptionist so that he will not be identified too quickly, but he is able to see the ashen pallor that fills Kevin’s face from the corner of his eye. Pretending disinterest in Larleed’s conversation, he takes a step closer to a huge painting that occupies almost the entirety of the wall opposite the receptionist’s desk. It is a little overblown for his tastes, showing a woman dressed in flowing robes, standing on the curve of a reddish planet. She is obviously human, holding a long flag or banner on a pole that would be snapping in the breeze, if this display was live-action like so many advertising kiosks on the Citadel. There is something strangely familiar about the woman’s heart-shaped face and the long golden hair that flows around her shoulders, but he shakes that impression away, studying the strange characters on the sash wrapped from her shoulder to around her opposite hip. In the star-studded background, he notices that, on many of the planetoids represented behind the blonde woman, the same banner waves atop each of the little circles of color. Silently, he wonders at the picture, his eyes almost involuntarily returning to the hauntingly familiar face of the woman holding the flag.

“Kevin, dear,” he hears Larleed question the receptionist, “it appears that this magnificent work of art has captivated my associate. Could you remind me once again what the name of this great painting is?”

“Of course, Mr. Bar,” the human replies. “Mr. Soie had that work commissioned when he was given this office by the CEO of the corporation. He’s very proud of it, and he’ll be very happy to know that you’ve shown an interest in it.”

“Indeed,” the Volus murmurs. “It’s a very striking piece. But I am still uncertain that I remember what the work is called.”

“Oh, yes,” Kevin stutters. “Didn’t I say? I’m so sorry. The work is called _Manifest Destiny._ ”


	14. Chapter 14

Quoyah feels ice flow through his veins, freezing him in place. Without conscious effort, the words force an image of the human woman — the one who shot Usi with her strange, old-fashioned Earth-gun — into his mind, but he ruthlessly pushes it aside. There is no time to lose himself in his eidetic memory, no time to be caught reliving those final words that the gang leader screamed at him before she made a shattered ruin of her face. There is only time to continue to push forward and meet with Enzo Soie to finalize the next step that he must take. In the background, he hears the echoes of that remembrance faintly … _manifest destiny_ … but closes his mind against any further recall that they might bring.

Sickened by the memories that are crowding forward and straining to be recognized, he abruptly turns away from the painting. His shoulder slams into Usi Erocas’s chest, and he looks up quickly to apologize.

But she barely seems to have noticed. Staring straight ahead, her gaze appears glazed, and Quoyah can see by the sickening ash-grey color that surrounds her eyes that the blood has drained from her face. In that moment, he knows that she heard it, too — those venomous last words of the gang leader — words that mean nothing to him but that are now burned into his memory.

And Usi’s, too.

Reflexively, he reaches out to take hold of her and presses his fingers into the armor that protects her upper arm. When she remains inattentive to his demands, he squeezes tighter.

“Usi,” he says softly, mindful of the receptionist who is chattering with Larleed. When she ignores him, he says more forcefully, “Usi!”

Her eyes remain fixed in the distance, and he notices that the stripes on her face have turned even more ashen. Leaning closer to the side of her head, he hisses, “Lieutenant Erocas!”

She blinks and looks across at him, and he can see her swallow hard. When her eyes meet his, he can feel her start away from him, her arm tugging desperately against the tight clasp that he has maintained on it. Her mandibles click in a panicky staccato, and one of her hands flies across her body to wrap around his wrist. Tightly. As if he is the only thing mooring her to her sense of reality. Or as if she desperately wants to flee as far as she possibly can from the lingering touch of his fingers on her arm. Keeping his eyes locked to hers, he silently wills her to recall herself to their situation, to reconnect to the danger that they are all facing, and slowly releases his grip on her arm. 

When her stranglehold on his wrist finally eases, he allows himself to smile gently at her, masking that moment of pain that he has felt when she appeared to reject his concern. She closes her orange eyes and turns away, taking an uncertain step that causes her to bump into Praz’Hali. The Quarian medic looks up quickly, one arm sliding around Usi’s waist to offer his support. Knowing that the Turian has someone who can ensure that she is healthy and who can focus concern solely on her, he turns back to the painting, seeming to study it without really seeing the brushstrokes.

The human face attracts him again, as if he is being pulled into the magnetic mechanism that allows spacecraft to dock with stations like the one that they are on now. Without thinking about it, he takes another step closer to the work of art on the wall. Staring up into the brilliantly blue, painted eyes, he begins to get the sense that there is something wrong with the representation of the female. The artist has missed something that defines this woman and will allow him to recall who exactly she is. It’s something … in the eyes …

“I’ve heard rumors that the model for this painting was our founder’s own granddaughter,” Kevin is saying to Larleed. “Many of Mr. Soie’s visitors have commented on it. But, you know …” His voice drops so that Quoyah can only barely hear it. “I’ve never really seen the resemblance myself.”

The Volus laughs, and he starts when he realizes how near the little merchant is standing to him. Turning his head away from the direction of Kevin’s voice, he pretends to study some of the other planetoids in the painting, seeing the little banner on many of them. For some reason, he feels a strange desire to cheer for the tiny circles that have not been decorated by that long flag.

“Knowing the young lady in question,” Larleed says in whisper to the receptionist, “I would agree with you, my dear boy. The artist completely missed her very unique…”

The buzz of an alert on the datapad in Kevin’s hand interrupts what the Volus had been about to say, and the receptionist excuses himself to respond to the message. After a moment, he cheerily announces, “Mr. Soie will see you now, Mr. Bar. If you’ll follow me …”

“Just a moment, Kevin,” the Volus replies quietly. “I had just one more question about this painting, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, sir,” Kevin responds. “As long as it’s a quick one. Mr. Soie is very busy this morning, you see …”

“As quick as a wink,” Larleed replies, turning away from the painting and beginning to walk with Kevin and the rest of them down the short hallway to the large double doors that certainly will lead to Enzo Soie’s private offices. Quoyah lingers behind, following along at last, last in the line trailing after the Volus and the receptionist. “That title … _Manifest Destiny_ … what exactly does that mean?”

Kevin laughs softly. “Oh, _that_. It’s just an old Earth phrase. It’s one of our mottos here at Lernaean Corporation, to encourage everyone to go out there and make their dreams come true. You know, _manifest_ their destinies.”

Quoyah wonders at the almost robotic recitation of the definition that he is hearing from the receptionist. Even the laughter seems part of the script that the young human is reading, and it sends shivers of apprehension sliding down his spine. Almost immediately, he scolds himself for the feeling of mistrust that his reaction creates in him: he is not a Turian, after all, whose entire racial first contact with the humans erupted into a war. He realizes that his interactions with Earth beings has been limited — Mikel and others on the human-owned ships that he has used to complete his missions for the Hanar. There is no reason for him to mistrust the receptionist.

And still it lingers. The feeling that Kevin has lied to Larleed Bar and all of them about the meaning of what seems to be an obscure Earth phrase. But there is no time to question the receptionist further or to ask for more detail.

Kevin passes a hand in front of the sensor pad to one side of the closed wooden doors, which slowly swing open after identifying him.

“I’ll leave you to your meeting, Mr. Bar,” Kevin says. “And thank you for visiting Lernaean’s corporate headquarters.”

Larleed Bar murmurs something to the receptionist and steps into the room just far enough that the cloaked Drell, Praz’Hali, Calena, and Usi can array themselves in a row behind the merchant. The representative of the Shadow Broker. Quoyah hopes that they create an adequately menacing presence in Soie’s office.

But perhaps not.

The human executive remains seated behind his long, wide, wooden desk, speaking softly into the microphone of the headset he is wearing. Quoyah sees him lift one hand and wave Larleed closer after a cursory glance at them, as if the human can barely be bothered. To his surprise, the Volus remains in exactly the same place, hands folded tightly on the ample curve of the belly encased in the environmental suit. Smiling softly to himself, Quoyah turns his head away from the human, just enough so that he knows the man cannot see into the darkness of his hood, and waits for the outcome of this battle of wills. It will be interesting to see who yields — the representative of the human corporation or the representative of the Shadow Broker — because it will show him who really holds the power in the relationship. Which may be a benefit to them when it comes to extracting information from Soie.

At last, the executive completes the record that he has been determined to finish, but he then allows a silence to fill the room, stretching for long minutes, interrupted occasionally by tapping noises that indicate that he is entering more information on a datapad or other keyboard. Quoyah glances over at Larleed: the Volus has remained perfectly still, eyes focused directly ahead, hands calmly clasped. In contrast, Calena Nyxir, who is standing just to Larleed’s left, is shifting from foot to foot, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. He hears Praz’Hali clear his throat delicately and then Usi moves in the corner of his vision, stepping closer to the wall beside the large, double doors so that she can lean her shoulders against the wood paneling that frames the portal. As content as Larleed seems to be in allowing Enzo Soie to play his games for control of their interaction, it is clear to Quoyah that everyone else in the room is far less patient.

Including himself. While the duel of wills between Larleed and his opponent may be instructional, it is a waste of his time. He is about to step closer to the Volus and say something when Enzo Soie rises from behind the desk and crosses the deep, soft carpeting toward them.

“Larleed Bar,” the man says, stretching one hand out to the merchant. “I suppose that I shouldn’t be surprised that the Shadow Broker sent you as his representative.” The human motions to the more comfortable furnishings closer to the wide, double doors and takes his own place in a low-slung, cushioned chair.

The Volus nods slightly. “I _have_ been here before, Enzo. You could almost say that I am your corporation’s particular envoy from and to the Shadow Broker.”

With the executive’s attention focused on Bar, Quoyah chooses to move deeper into the office, keeping his face turned away from the two representatives and their exchange. He understands that there is a point where he must stop, where Enzo Soie will feel that his space is being threatened by the many people that Larleed Bar has brought into the executive’s office. Moving cautiously, he reaches a place on the wall opposite of Soie’s desk and behind the man’s back, so that he has a clear view of the Volus’s face. He turns enough so that he can watch the two representatives in their negotiation and keep his identity hidden from the human.

To his surprise, Calena mirrors his position, coming within a stride of Enzo’s desk. He can see the executive’s head turn sharply when the Asari maiden approaches the heart of this sanctuary of business power, but it seems that she ceases her movement at a distance that is comfortable enough for him. Quoyah sighs and returns his attention to the conversation between the two representative.

Larleed Bar is speaking cautiously, the words filtering slowly through the speaker on the enviro-suit. “… you must understand, Enzo, that the Shadow Broker questions your corporation’s interest in the Krogan Genophage. He understands that your species is new to the extents of the universe; your people haven’t experienced the devastation that an event like the genophage wreaks on an entire population. The Krogans live in despair for the future of their entire species. They can see the end of everything that makes them who they are — their faith, their relationships, their culture. Yes, I know. I know,” Larleed says, delaying the interruption that Soie seems determined to voice by waving both hands dismissively. “You’ve experienced loss. Someone who was once an important part of your life is no longer there. The distances of the universe or even death have taken from you, making you less than you once were. But death does not daily stare your entire race in the eyes. Your species has found the way into the vast bounty beyond your own small bit of space. And you certainly have found ways to make the most of it.”

The Volus’s voice drops to a low murmur, and Quoyah sees the enviro-suited head turn to take in the luxury surrounding them in the executive’s offices. Panels of exotic woods that have never grown in the forests of the small blue-green Earth. Stone from Mars and planets beyond the first jumps available through the mass relay located in the humans’ own solar system. This species, indeed, has exploited the resources that were opened to them when they discovered how to breach the black void of space without investing generations of their men and women to the simple process of traveling the vast distances between planets.

“The genophage,” Bar says in a low, intense voice, “has dimmed the future of the entire universe.”

“I’m not certain that all species would agree with you, Bar,” Soie interrupts sharply. “From what I’ve learned, the Krogans were set to invade every inhabited planet, simply because their basic genetics make them a threat to every other species in the universe. Most would say that the genophage was a blessing that saved the lives of millions of individuals throughout space.”

“Perhaps,” Larleed answers slowly, “but the extinction of one species does not guarantee the continued existence or success of any other. This is what worries the Shadow Broker: that your corporation is determined to …”

“Create a cure? To reverse the effects of the genophage on the Krogans so that they can look to their futures with hope and expectation?” Soie stares over at Larleed, the tension in his voice reflected in his straight back and outthrust chin. “Does the Shadow Broker think that a corporation with the broad-reaching investments and high profile of Lernaean would risk any part of our position by creating even the whisper of scandal around any investigation into the effects or application of the genophage?”

“Enzo,” Bar’s alto-tenor slides soothingly into the space between the representatives. “Enzo. The Shadow Broker is simply curious as to why your corporation is pursuing information on what is one of the greatest sins our peoples have made in the name of rectifying another of our greatest sins. Your species is still in its universal infancy. It may be wiser for humankind to learn from those who have made the mistakes that alter the future for everyone. Everyone, Enzo. Even those who come after.”

Soie laughs derisively. “You shouldn’t assume that we are as infantile as most of your kind would like to believe, Larleed.”

“Of course not,” the Volus says, but Quoyah can hear the disappointment in the merchant’s voice. “If you will allow my associate access to your system, she will secure the transfer of the data into your system.”

Nodding toward his desk, the human agrees. “I didn’t log out of my access when I stepped away. It’s set up to receive your information.”

While Calena closes the distance to the terminal, Quoyah notices that Praz’Hali and Usi have stepped away from the doorway where they had been lingering. He hears the chair that Soie had been sitting in creak and sees that the Asari is leaning forward, although he cannot observe what she is actually doing. After the conversation between the two representatives, he is a little surprised that Larleed has agreed to give the humans what they have requested from the Shadow Broker. If the universe’s most powerful information dealer has doubts about what the corporation will learn from or do with the data that he has provided, why would he follow through on the contract with Lernaean?

“I would prefer to oversee the data transfer personally,” Enzo is saying to the Volus, “is you don’t mind, Larleed.”

Quoyah sees the merchant motion with both hands: one to attract his attention, and one to keep Soie from rising and going to his desk. He crosses toward the two representatives, drawing the hood from his head as he steps across the thick carpeting. “One thing before you go, Enzo,” Larleed says. “My associate has a question for you.”

Quoyah waits until Enzo Soie turns toward him, until their eyes meet, and he sees the surprised recognition in the executive’s face. The human has imagined — until now — that his private sanctuary will keep him safe and that the security pad at the door and the personnel around him are a shield against the threat of one Drell. Knowing that he has the upper hand, Quoyah steps closer to where the executive is sitting and begins to ask the question that has troubled him in the weeks that have preceded this moment.

“Why?” he whispers hoarsely. “Why did you …”

The sound of voices covers the question that he had been about to ask, and the large double doors slide open. Quoyah looks over to see Kevin stumble into the room. His face is as ashen as his boss’s, and one of his arms is clenched in the grip of a Salarian who is holding a wicked-looking hypodermic against the receptionist’s throat. The question that he had been about to ask slips from his mind, and every muscle in his body tightens, ready to act in an eye blink.

“Where is she?” the Salarian calls across the room, pressing the needle more deeply into the tender flesh of Kevin’s throat. “Where is Dr. Malon?”

“If you’ll excuse us,” Larleed starts, rising and turning toward the door.

“I’m s-s-sorry, Mr. Soie,” stammers Kevin at the same time, his eyes wide.

Quoyah starts toward one side, trying to not draw attention to himself and noticing as he moves that the doorway into the hall in the receptionist’s area is opening. A woman, surrounded by four armed men, moves through the portal, but when she sees him through the open doors, she freezes in place. He sees her lips move, whispering his name.

“Quoyah!” she screams in the next moment. One of the guards wraps a large, gloved hand around her upper arm. “Quoyah Faha! Save me! You’re the only one who can save me!”

He starts forward, as if he can be drawn to her side by the words that she has spoken. The armed guards close in around her, moving her back into the hallway, hustling her away from the office. But he cannot reach her. His eidetic memory slams his consciousness to one side, and he stumbles to his knees on the thick carpeting of Enzo Soie’s office.


	15. Chapter 15

_“Save me! You’re the only one who can save me!” She laughingly grabs hold of his hand and drags him down a branching hallway, into a darkened niche where she wraps her arms around his neck. Rising up on her toes, she presses forward, the soft swelling of her human breasts warm against his chest. Reflexively, he wraps his arms around her waist to hold her against him, breathing deeply of the spicy, floral scent that floats around her like a soft aura. When she leans her forehead against his cheek, he starts slightly, and he hears her chuckle under her breath._

_“I’m certain she came this way,” he hears the Turian that had passed him on the gantry saying. Glancing over his shoulder he sees the small group turn into the hallway where the woman has dragged him to help her hide. He is tempted to watch their approach, but the woman presses her hand against his face, turning it back toward her. To his surprise, she leans forward and kisses him, her lips soft against his own, her tongue slipping suggestively into his mouth. His eyes slide closed, body responding eagerly, and he curls her more tightly against his chest and hips, deepening the kiss for long, heady moments._

_“Perhaps it would be best to return to our rooms,” one of the Turian’s subordinates suggests. “If you’re there, the rest of us can do some reconnaissance …”_

_A long stream of cursing follows the suggestion, but Quoyah can barely hear it over the pounding of his heart. He moves one hand up the human woman’s back, intent on cupping the base of her skull in his fingers, enjoying the silky slip of her long, blonde hair over his skin. But as the conversations among the Turians fades in the distance, she pulls away from him, stepping from his embrace. His eyes snap open._

_She is smiling at him, her brilliant, aqua-colored eyes sparkling at him with mischief and pleasure. Slipping up onto her toes again, she quickly presses her lips to his and then steps out of his arms._

_“Thanks for your help,” she says softly. “There was no way that I was going to outpace that Turian, and I’m not ready to deal with him yet. He should understand by now that I’m trying to be fair to all of the bidders.” She peeks down the corridor and sighs in satisfaction for having evaded her pursuers. Leaning back into the shadowy corner, she looks him over from head to toe. “I suppose you’re one of them, too.”_

_He nods slowly, not certain that his voice will come smoothly from his throat if he tries to use it. Quoyah hears her sigh again, and the slight edge that he hears in her words causes him to take a step away from her._

_“Well, I suppose you deserve a chance to make your argument to me,” she says, crossing her arms over the breasts that had — until recently — been pressed tightly against him. He reluctantly drags his eyes back up to the blue-green of her gaze. “Since you saved me from the Turians.”_

_“It was my pleasure to be of assistance to you, Miss … uh …” Quoyah stammers._

_“Arabella Sterling.” She frowns at him. “Shouldn’t you have known that?”_

_He nods again. “Of course I did, Miss Sterling. I simply … I was not able to make the connection in that moment. Please forgive me.”_

_Tipping her head to one side, Arabella studies him, a sly little smile tugging at her lips. “This could be more interesting than I had thought it would be,” she says softly, stepping up to him and tucking one hand through his arm. “It’s possible that the Turian might not have made it to his rooms yet, but if he sees you with me, he might leave me alone. And it might give his ego a little tweak if he thinks that I favor you.”_

_Quoyah frowns at her. “I am not certain …”_

_“Escort me back to my rooms,” she says, tugging gently on his arm. “I promise that I’ll find a way to reward you for your protection.”_

_He starts down the corridor with her, his opposite hand coming to cover the one that is resting in the crook of his elbow. Walking beside her toward what he has been told is the private wing of the mansion, he wonders at this sudden protectiveness toward her that he feels._

_“I suppose I shouldn’t really complain that you don’t know who I am,” she says cheerily as she pulls him toward her rooms. “All I know now is that you’re one of the representatives to the auction. I know that the Drell aren’t among those interested in the artifact, so I have to assume that you’re here for the Hanar. Is that right?”_

_“Yes, that is true,” he replies. “I am Quoyah Faha, and I have been sent by the Hanar to acquire what they believe is a relic of the Enkindlers.”_

_“Quoyah,” she repeats slowly, and he feels his body stir at the sound of his name in the low purr of her voice. “Have you been away from Kahje often?”_

_He shakes his head. “No, this is my first assignment for the Hanar away from the home planet. I have served them for my entire adult life, however, and have completed many tasks for them on Kahje.”_

_“Your entire adult life?” Arabella teases. “Surely that’s not that long.”_

_Quoyah laughs lightly. “Not so long, no. Perhaps it only seems that way because I have been so busy. It feels that I have barely had a moment to breathe since I began my work for them.”_

_Her fingers tighten where they are lying on his arm, and he looks down to swim in the aqua of her eyes. “I understand that,” she murmurs so softly that he has to lean his head closer to hers to hear the words. “Since my father brought me out from Earth, I feel like I’ve …”_

_“Miss Sterling,” a low, voice interrupts her, filtered through a speaker. Quoyah looks up and sees a Volus dressed in a sparkling environmental suit coming down the corridor toward them, cheerily waving one hand at the woman at his side. Reluctantly dropping her arm, he steps behind her so that he can leave her to this new guest, but she reaches out and grasps his arm._

_“Stay,” she whispers, tightening her fingers before she turns to the individual waddling down the hallway._

_“Larleed,” Arabella says warmly. “Were you looking for me? I’m sorry not to have been in my rooms.”_

_The Volus waves a dismissive hand, and Quoyah finds himself following the motion, attracted by the sparkling decorations that have been embedded in the material of the environmental suit. He has never seen such a display on what is usually a functional garment that allows the Volus to interact throughout the universe. Indirectly, he studies the suit, listening to the soothing alto/tenor voice that comes through the speaker and wondering what exactly is encased in the glittering garb._

_“Arabella, darling,” Bar says, taking one of her hands. “You are allowed to take a moment or two for yourself. And when you have found pleasant company …” The eye coverings blink at Quoyah for a moment, and he feels as if he has been measured and put into a file for later reference. “Who could blame you for wanting to spend time with someone new? I know that I’m just in the ‘old friend’ category these days.”_

_Arabella’s light laugh echoes down the hall. “Yes, 'old' friend. That’s all you are. So let me hold your arm so that I can guide you back toward your rooms.”_

__

__

_A sigh ripples from the speaker of the environmental suit. “You’ve broken my heart once again, dearest. Such a wicked, wicked child.”_

_Quoyah stands where he is for a moment, watching the slender human and the squat Volus walking away from him, uncertain whether he should follow or return to his rooms. After a few steps, Bar turns and looks back at him._

_“Your friend,” Larleed says, raising one hand to wave, “doesn’t seem certain whether you still want to …” A soft giggle hisses through the speaker. “… to play with him, my dear. You really should be more careful with your toys.”_

_Arabella cuffs the Volus on the shoulder. “Don’t be disrespectful. This Drell is one of the representatives who has come to the auction to bid on my family’s artifact. He is your rival, Larleed. Perhaps I should leave the two of you alone to learn more about each other. To give you the opportunity to find whether he has any weaknesses that you can exploit.”_

_“Darling,” Bar’s voice drops to a whisper, but Quoyah can still hear it echoing down the hallway, “I believe that you have already discovered his weakness. And it seems completely unfair that_ you _are it.”_

_Smiling at him, Arabella motions for Quoyah to join the pair of them, looping her free hand through his arm, walking between him and the Volus toward her rooms. “You can’t listen, you know. To anything Larleed says, I mean.” She tightens her hold on his arm. “Larleed has a tongue that is coated with honey to seduce anyone who listens.”_

_“Except you, Arabella, dear,” the Volus returns. “You have yet to fall under my spell.”_

_She laughs again, and the music of the sound sends a little shiver through him. “I should introduce you, of course. Larleed Bar, this is Quoyah Faha, the representative of the Hanar for the auction. Quoyah, Larleed represents the Shadow Broker.”_

_“Oh, Arabella,” the Volus complains, “do you have to introduce me to everyone like that? Can’t I maintain just a little bit of my mystery among my rivals?”_

_“You’re nothing_ except _a mystery, Larleed. Besides, I haven’t told the Turians or the Batarians who you are. Does that count at all?”_

_Bar snorts. “I suppose I can use that to my advantage. Or maybe I can just hope that your new friend will forget all about me before tomorrow.”_

_Quoyah smiles gently and shakes his head. “I do not think that will be possible. As you can plainly see, I am Drell.”_

_Looking over at him, she examines his face for a moment before saying, “I’m not sure what you mean by that, Quoyah.”_

_Before he can say anything, Larleed says, “Haven’t they taught you anything about your potential bidders, Arabella? Drell have eidetic memories. He will never forget anything that happens between us. Ever.”_

_“Then why did you hope that he would forget about you?”_

_“It was a joke, darling. But I suppose it isn’t funny when I have to explain it.”_

_She laughs gently, and Quoyah listens to the two friends exchange barbs until they arrive at the door to the rooms that Larleed Bar has been assigned. The Volus waves in a friendly way and then he is alone again with the strange woman, the reason he has traveled through the mass relays. She slips her hand onto his arm and draws him down the corridor toward her rooms, letting a silence embrace them like a pair of longtime lovers. Uncertain as to what this human woman wants from him, he strolls along beside her in the quiet and considers the effect that she has on him. His skin seems to soak in the warmth from her touch as if it has been chilled for days, and he feels the heat settle into his groin. Out of the corner of his eye, he studies the lines of her profile: the straight nose, full lips, and the strong chin. While he looks at her, her gaze rises to meet his and feels himself sliding into the pools of her aqua eyes which smile invitingly at him. He knows that he cannot allow himself to fall into those blue-green deeps, that he will lose his being in the ocean gleam of her eyes. The sense of danger wars for a moment with his desire for this woman, and he is uncertain which side will win._

_“So you’ll never forget me, ever?” she asks, and he sees what have to be tears pooling in her eyes, making them shimmer like the oceans of Kahje. “No matter how far apart we are or how many years it’s been …”_

_He nods. “You are forever with me, Miss Sterling. Always a part of my living.”_

_Stopping at a set of carved, wooden doors, she turns one handle and steps part of the way into the room. He nods to her, willing to let her go, needing desperately to have some time to himself to try to understand why her presence has stirred him so completely. He is about to move back down the corridor toward his rooms when she beams at him, the soft coral of her lips contrasting with the brilliant white of her teeth. “I’m so glad that you were there to help me, Quoyah.”_

_Shaking his head, he says, “I am certain that you could have dealt with the Turians by yourself, Miss Sterling.”_

_“A girl needs a helping hand every once in a while,” she replies. “Even me. In fact, if you come in to my room, you can help me right now.”_

_“I … I am not certain that that would be …”_

_She takes his hand in hers and pulls him through the doorway and into the luxury of her private suite. “Take a seat anywhere and talk to me while I get changed.” She starts across the room, kicking her heels from her feet and sliding the jacket that she has been wearing from her shoulders. He watches her go, startled by the sensations that race through him when she exposes more of her skin by shedding her clothing as she walks away._

_“If that is what you wish, Miss Sterling.”_

_She stops and turns to smile back at him. “Please, Quoyah. You can call me ‘Arabella.’”_

_“Arabella.” The word slips from his lips like a sigh. He watches until she disappears through another door and then sits down on a hard, straight-backed chair._

_“What’s it like?” she calls to him through the open door into the next room. “To have an eidetic memory, I mean.”_

_“It is useful in my work for the Hanar. I am able to carry out even the most complicated missions, because I immediately recall exactly how the orders were given to me.”_

_“That does sound useful. It is ever dangerous to you? Or other Drell?”_

_He clears his throat, rubbing the palms of his hands against the soft cloth of his trousers. “We are taught from a very young age that excessive emotion can create a feedback loop in our memories.”_

_“Really? What does that mean? Could it hurt you?”_

_Sighing, he continues, “If I am too emotionally attached to the memory, I may become trapped in it. I will live the moments again and again, foregoing nourishment of any kind. The memory becomes the only thing that appears to be necessary to the Drell who is caught in an emotionally charged recall loop. When we are young, we are instructed in the process of separating our feelings from the moments we are experiencing. I understand that — to other races — this separation creates the impression that Drell are emotionless, but it is not true. It is our instinct for survival that makes us …”_

_His voice catches in his throat, stopping at the sight of her in a dress of flame that clings to each curve of her body. She is holding the bodice to her chest, but through conscious design or carelessness, much of the soft flesh of her breasts is revealed under the red cloth. Suddenly, his palms itch to cup the tender curves, to trace his fingertips over and over the contours, and to discover what pleasure he can give her through the contact. She walks toward him, and he notices the seductive sway of her hips and the way that the cloth moves with her steps, caressing her buttocks and long legs just as he longs to do. Stopping in front of him, she turns so that he can see the deep, plunging line of the back of her gown. Because the closures have not been fitted into place, the fabric drapes low on her body, revealing a tantalizing hint of her lower back. Without thinking about it, he raises one hand, his fingers hovering just above the divot that starts where her rear cheeks come together, longing to, but not touching that tender flesh._

_“Zip me up and then fasten my straps, would you, Quoyah?” she purrs, thrusting the fabric ends of the halter top of the gown over her shoulders. A decorative strand of beads snaps against his cheek, and he flinches away, but she doesn’t notice, gathering her long, blonde hair between her fingers and dragging it out of the way. “I have someone coming a little later to do my hair for me. What do you think? Should I wear it up or down?”_

_His fingers tremble as he slides the pull upward, drawing the sides of cloth together to cover the enticing skin of her lower back. After he takes the ends of the straps and slides them together in an intricate closure, he lets his knuckles brush against her spine and arranges the strands of beads against her skin. Stepping closer to her, he slides his arms around her waist, pressing his chest against her back. He leans forward, pressing his lips against the nape of her neck, under the hair that she is holding piled on top of her head._

_“I think,” he whispers, letting his lips brush against the side of her throat, “that you should wear it up, so that I can remember how soft your skin felt when I pressed my lips against it here … and here …”_

_She turns in his arms, wrapping her hands around his neck and stretching up to hold him tightly against her. “Show me,” Arabella whispers in his ear. “Show me how your memory works. Tell me exactly what I said to you when we met.”_

_Quoyah allows the memory to take hold of him. “You are rushing down the corridor, your hair floating around you like a golden halo. ‘Save me! You’re the only one who can save me!’ you say, and laughingly grab hold of my hand. You drag me down a branching hallway, into a darkened niche where you wrap your arms around my neck. You rise up on your toes, and I reflexively wrap my arms around your waist to hold you against me. When you lean your forehead against my cheek, I start slightly, and you chuckle under her breath.”_

_She pulls back in his arms and looks up at him. “That’s amazing,” she says. “The recall is so … so overwhelmingly exact. What makes it happen?”_

_“A phrase. A sight. A smell. It’s unique for each memory,” he admits, leaning forward, intent on pressing his lips against hers. But she leans farther away from him, straining the clasp of his arms around her waist._

_“And for you? What usually forces you to remember?"_

_“My trigger is usually words. Things that people have spoken to me. Some time in our future, a phrase from this conversation that we are having right now may cause me to remember every detail of it.”_

_He leans close again, but they both hear a sharp rap on the door. Releasing his hold on her, he steps away while she calls for the person who has knocked to enter. He listens while she welcomes the woman who has come to style her hair, but he realizes that there is no place for him here. Crossing to the door, he pulls it open, ready to return to his rooms to dress for dinner._

_“Quoyah!” she calls to him, and he looks back to see that she is seated in front of a gilt-framed mirror, her heart-shaped face reflected in the glass. The two images of her causes a shiver of fear to race through him for some reason, and he pushes the feeling aside. “Come back and escort me to dinner. You will remember the way, won’t you?”_

_He smiles at the teasing in her voice, steps into the hall, and closes the door behind him._


	16. Chapter 16

It is the jab of a needle — the sharp, alien intrusion of something that never has been part of his anatomy into the tender flesh of his arm — that finally drags him from the continual replay of _her_. Driving both sets of his eyelids open, he stares up into the semi-transparent face plate of Praz’Hali nar Zephyne’s environmental suit. Through the smoky mask, he sees the medic’s eyes narrow, but when he tries to speak his voice comes out as little more than a hoarse whisper.

“How long?” he croaks, dreading the answer.

“It’s been a little more than five Citadel-days,” the Quarian says, withdrawing the needle from his arm and applying a sterile pad to stem any bleeding. “I was just about to put you on an intravenous feed, since you haven’t had food in as many days. Now that you have recovered yourself, do you believe that you will be able to eat something?”

Quoyah feels a nauseated roil rumble through his body, and he closes his eyes against the sickened sensation. But it is only one of the feelings that have started rushing through him in rapid succession. Anger. Sadness. Passion. Fear. Shame. Mostly it is the overwhelming sense that he has failed the individuals who have rearranged their lives to be with him, who have extended their hands in support of his driving need to avenge a woman whom he had known for less than an hour. Turning his head toward the wall at his side, he drapes one forearm over his face, reinforcing the blackness that stares back at him.

“Quoyah?” Praz’Hali asks gently. “Can I bring you food?”

He sighs deeply, pushing the mire of his emotions to one side. “Yes. You may. I am released from the feedback loop of my eidetic memory. I must not waste more time in this ridiculous self-pity.”

The medic clears his throat. “I have been researching Drell while you have been lost to us, hoping to better understand what has affected you and how to treat it. From what I have learned, the episode you experienced is beyond your control.”

Quoyah sighs again. “Yes, of course,” he croaks dismissively. The sense of his disconnection from reality grips him again, and he struggles to find a way to ground himself five days into the future — beyond the memory of Enzo Soie’s ashen face and the wicked-looking hypodermic pressed to Kevin’s throat.

“Where …?” he starts tentatively. “Are we still at the Lernaean space station? Above Mars?”

“No. Larleed moved up many of the shipment delivery dates for our cargo or made other arrangements, so Iskra has been ferrying us through the mass relays at nearly the limits of the capabilities of the engines. Already, two-thirds of the hold is empty, and Usi and Mikel have turned the space into a training arena for hand-to-hand combat.”

Grunting in response, Quoyah feels his blood stir at the prospect of improving his skill, but at the same moment, his body reels with exhaustion, the weakness spreading through every muscle like the steady creep of spilled oil. The lethargic entropy has the same quality as the oil he has pictured in his mind — clinging and thick — a substance that will keep him exactly where he is in this web of shame, despair, and loss. Unless he chooses to strip himself of its effects. Dropping his arm from his face, he turns toward Praz’Hali.

“Could you help me sit up?” he asks, uncertain that his body can handle the stress, but also unwilling to allow the creeping lethargy to continue its path through his body.

The Quarian steps closer to the bed and considers him for a long moment. “If you will allow me to prop you against this corner, I will help you change position. However, if you try to rise or leave this room, I will have Mikel strap you to the bed.”

He tries to chuckle in response, but the sound turns into a wracking cough that buffets his chest and sends pain spearing into his head. Not wanting the Quarian to leave him prone, he waves Praz’Hali closer and allows the medic to tuck his weakened body against his enviro-suited chest and shift him among the blankets. Settling back in a more upright position, he realizes how much time and information he has lost.

“How did I get here, Praz’Hali?” he asks. “What happened to Enzo Soie and Kevin and that Salarian?”

Seating himself on the edge of Quoyah’s bed, Praz’Hali wraps a hand around one of the Drell’s pulse points and waits. He can feel his blood throbbing past the barrier of the pressure of the medic’s fingertips. When the Quarian is satisfied with the steady pounding of his heart, he begins to speak steadily.

“Usi Erocas carried you through the space station and to Iskra’s ship,” Praz’Hali explains, keeping his voice even. “I’m uncertain as to the other details of the completion of our aims, as I have been focused on your well-being since we left the station. I can send Larleed in …” Quoyah sees the Quarian’s eyes narrow. “… but you both will have to promise me that you will eat first and talk later. You will recover, I’m certain, but it may take longer than you would like.”

Rising from his side, the medic gathers items from the table beside the bed. He walks to the door but pauses before he exits, turning to study Quoyah’s face. “Rest. And eat. You will heal.”

The Quarian nods and steps forward, passing one hand in front of the sensor so that the door slides open. Quoyah hears a strangled sob and sees Praz’Hali pushed to one side and then Calena is pressed against his chest, her arms twined around his neck. Uncertain what has caused this eruption of emotion, he looks up at the Quarian who shrugs back.

“Many of us have been concerned for you, my friend,” Praz’Hali murmurs. “Many, many of us.” And then the medic is gone.

He brings his arms around the Asari maiden’s waist, cradling her while she continues to sob against his neck, the warm moisture of her tears sliding across his collarbone to be absorbed by the lining of his casual ship-board clothing. Eventually, her crying subsides to a few hiccoughing gasps until she finally pushes away from him. An embarrassed flush stains her cheeks, and the unshed tears that have gathered in her lashes make her eyes sparkle like amethyst gemstones. He smiles gently at her.

“Sorry,” she says softly. “I didn’t mean to get all sloppy on you. I’m just … relieved, you know.” She scrubs one hand across her eyes and looks away from him.

He strokes his fingers down the Asari’s arm, trying to reassure her without words. “Calena,” he whispers. “Praz’Hali did not give me details, and it will take time for Larleed to visit me. What happened? Did we get the information that we needed?”

She lifts one finger to her mouth and starts to gnaw at the side of it. “I was busy at the desk, you know, Quoyah. I mean, I was uploading the data from Larleed’s file and then the doors opened and that Salarian was there. It wasn’t like I could do anything. I still had transfers to complete.”

“But you have the data,” he presses her. “You were able to retrieve what we needed from the Lernaean computer system without alerting the security systems?”

“Iskra and I have been sifting through it,” she murmurs, “in between off-loading all of Larleed’s stuff. I didn’t know I was going to be a delivery person when I agreed to go along with this …”

Quoyah sighs and leans back in his corner. “So you can’t tell me whether we’ve discovered our next step yet?”

“Oh,” she gasps, her gaze flying to meet his. “Oh, Quoyah, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think … I don’t …” Tears start to swim in her eyes, and he can see her lower lip start to tremble gently. Smiling softly, he reaches out to cup the side of her face in his hand, using one thumb to brush away the trails of moisture that linger on her cheek. She sighs and lets her eyes close, turning her head so that she is pressed more deeply into his hand. “I …” she murmurs, “I would … could I hug you again, Quoyah? Just to make sure it’s really you?”

He chuckles and tugs her tightly against his chest. “Have you never worried about a compatriot before, Calena? Surely you have been close to other Asari maidens? Or those on your previous assignments?”

She curls against him, but he can feel the negative shake of her head moving on his chest. “I’ve only taken short-term missions until now. And my mother is something of a loner. She enjoys researching indigenous cultures and most of my childhood was spent with her in the field. So I never had Asari playmates, and I rarely was around the youngsters on the planets we visited. I think — to be completely honest,” she says, pulling away from him and looking into his face, “I think that my mother only chose to have me for research. As some kind of experiment.”

Wrapping her hand in one of his, he squeezes her fingers and says, “If that is so, I would say that the experiment is a complete success.”

A rosy flush rises in her cheeks, and her eyes seem to sparkle back at him. Just when she is about to say something, the door slides open, and Larleed Bar trundles into his room. Before he can say anything to her, Calena is in the hall and hurrying to some other part of the ship.

The little Volus walks up to the side of his bed and stares at him through the amber lenses of the environmental suit. In the silence that settles around them, Larleed extends a bowl toward him and waits until Quoyah has taken it in both hands. Breathing deeply of the steam that is rising from the warm broth, he tips the container and lets a mouthful of the warm liquid slide down his throat and waits for a long moment to see how his body reacts to the introduction of food after so many days. When the broth settles gently, he leans back in the corner, closing his eyes and letting his head lean against the wall for a moment.

But he cannot rest. The silence that embraces them bothers him. Larleed Bar is not a naturally quiet individual, filling even a few moments of interaction with what many would call the most inane chattering. Some might think that it is a tool that the Volus uses to hide personal insecurities: Quoyah knows that the merchant actually uses it to gauge the others involved in the conversation, to understand how they react in certain situations and who is more dominant in any relationship. The fact that Larleed is silent now means that something is very, very wrong.

“I didn’t know,” Larleed begins softly. “I didn’t know she’d be there, Quoyah.”

Shaking his head gently, he takes another sip of his soup and opens his eyes. The Volus is standing near his side, one finger tracing along the edge of the blanket that is covering his legs. “Come on, Larleed. You know you cannot resist the chance to crawl into bed with me.”

“No, you can’t dismiss it,” Bar says, sitting down on the edge of Quoyah’s cot. “You know that I’m always prepared. I knew that she was part of the corporation; after all, her grandfather started it when the humans moved into space. She’s the model for that damned painting in Enzo Soie’s office.”

Suddenly, Quoyah understands why he felt that something was wrong with the picture and why it had held his attention for so many minutes. The woman in the painting is supposed to be Arabella Sterling — he recognizes the shape of her and the golden blonde of her hair, now that he knows who the basis for the representation is. But the artist has completely missed the ocean aqua of her eyes, replacing them with dull, ordinary blue. His gut clenches when he remembers her voice, calling to him from the doorway, and the picture of her struggling in the arms of those men. Closing his eyes, he tightens his jaw, grinding his teeth together until he feels that he is in control of his emotions again.

“She called to me, Larleed,” he whispers. “She begged me to save her.”

The little growl that rattles through the speaker on the environmental suit startles him, and he looks over at the profile of the merchant sitting next to him. “She locked you in a feedback loop of memories. Arabella did that on purpose, Quoyah. She knew exactly the effect her words would have on you, and she used them to delay you so that she could make her escape.”

“Are you certain? Did you follow her? Where did she go?”

Larleed sighs and slowly explains, “No, we didn’t follow her immediately, although I did send Praz’Hali after her as soon as I could. He managed to catch her group just as the doors were closing on the lift, but he couldn’t ask her anything or follow. He said that she appeared to be struggling with the men who were surrounding her, and Mikel and Iskra said the same thing when they saw her on the ship’s external monitors when her group passed through the docking area. As soon as we were all aboard, Iskra took the ship out as quickly as she could, but they were already through the mass relay. We had no way to track where they had gone or follow them after that.”

Quoyah feels his jaw clench again in frustration, but he knows that there is no reason take his emotion out on the Volus. To steady himself, he takes another drink of broth and stares straight forward into one of the other corners of his room. Finally, when he is certain that he can speak evenly again, he says, “She needs me, Larleed. She begged me to save her.”

“Damned voids!” Bar curses, rising from his bedside and pacing away in the small space of the room. “She didn’t beg you to save her, Quoyah Faha! She cursed you. In the one way that is almost certainly guaranteed to kill you. She purposefully sent you into a feedback loop of memories of her in the hopes of trapping you there. She needed a chance to escape, and she took the quickest, most certain way of making sure that it happened.”

He slowly shakes his head, trying to reconcile the analysis of the events that Larleed is giving him and the memories that he has relived for the past five days. Those amazing first moments together. The sparkle of humor in her eyes. The tingling response of every nerve in his body when she touched him. The fit of her curves against the angles of his body. He feels so much more deeply connected to her in this moment, having lived their first days again and again, having felt those initial, uncontrollable emotions over and over. Wrapping himself in the memory of those feelings, he shakes his head again, staring across at the amber disks covering the Volus’s eyes. “She was struggling with those men. They were taking her somewhere against her will. I need to save her, Larleed.”

Bar growls more loudly, and suddenly the merchant’s body is surrounded by the glow of biotic energy. In the next instant, the bowl is snatched from his hands by the power of the Volus’s implants, and it sails across the room to smash against the door, remnants of his broth dripping across the flat panel like the tears that had washed down Calena’s face. Quoyah looks over at Larleed, but the merchant has crossed the space between them. Their faces are within inches of each other when the Volus snarls at him.

“Arabella Sterling does not need you, Quoyah. She wants to manipulate you to the point where you completely lose yourself to her control. And when she has wrung every molecule of useful energy from your body, she will leave you in the puddle of your own remains.”

“Larleed, I heard her. I heard the fear and longing in her voice.”

“Because she is an excellent actress, you love-sick idiot.” The Volus sighs heavily and sits down on the cot again. “We both know what she did last time, Quoyah. How she broke you and made it impossible for you to love or trust anyone ever again. If I hadn’t talked to Mikel and realized that you hadn’t left her mansion, you would be dead in your room. You think that the malfunction of the climate control was an accident? She had the gauges reset so that the temperature would drop so much that your body would put itself into a hibernation state. If we hadn’t pulled you out of there, you would have starved to death. She did it all, because she is a self-serving, self-interested, megalomaniacal bitch. And you can’t see it because you have been wrapped so tightly in your memories of her that you’ve lost the reality of your present.” Larleed Bar reaches out and takes hold of Quoyah’s arm. “Please, my friend, I’m begging you. Don’t follow her. Don’t let her take you from me again.”

A little sob escapes through the speaker of the Volus’s enviro-suit, and Quoyah reaches reflexively for the hand, covering it with his own. Squeezing the fingers tightly, he waits until Larleed looks over at him and smiles gently at the merchant.

“You are the best friend I have, Larleed,” he says softly. “But she is my heart. I cannot leave her to fend for herself when she has called to me.”

Another deep sigh rattles through the speaker. “Then you will do it alone, Quoyah. I can’t watch you die because of her.” Bar rises and crosses to the portal, letting it slide open before turning to look across the room at him. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave the ship as soon as Iskra can take us back to the Citadel. Good-bye, Quoyah.” The Volus passes into the corridor and disappears when the door slides back into place.

He sags back into the corner, his eyes sliding closed against the pain that shoots through him after Bar is gone. Turning his head toward the wall, he reflects on what Larleed has said to him. He understands that he is very wrapped in the emotions that locked him in the feedback loop — the thrill of his first intimate contact with a human and the excitement of the newness of their relationship. And he has to admit, if he is completely honest with himself, that he has never attempted to study his interactions with Arabella in any other state of mind than his rapturous glow of love for her. If the Volus is right about her motivations and actions in their relationship …

And then there is Larleed Bar. As much as his passion for Arabella is like the coals of a long-burning fire, his friendship with the Volus is the wood, a pile from which he can choose new pieces to keep the flames of their relationship alive. Together, they have shared too many moments of laughter, too many secrets, too much of each other for him to let go of Larleed. And the Volus has been there to save his life. Twice. It is more than any dream of romance with Arabella could ever be.

Sighing deeply, he opens his eyes and begins a set of exercises that he has known since he was a child, designed to help him separate his emotions from his memories. When a deep calm settles in his core, he lies down on his cot and slips into his eidetic memories of _her_.


	17. Chapter 17

He stumbles slightly and reaches out to brace himself on the corridor wall. His body complains mightily, his legs wobbling with his weight, his head swimming for long, unpredictable moments. Taking a few deep breaths, he wills the weakness from his body and steadies himself, more ready to continue forward than return to his bed and his former invalid status. Praz’Hali has finally release him from the restriction of his cot and his room, and Quoyah has decided to make the most of his chance to return to the normalcy of his life. The corridor looks like the passageway to a new world, and he travels down it eagerly, ready to leave his most recent past behind. He is prepared — after the days of being confined to his room — to take back his life and move forward again.

It’s the grunt of individual against individual that draws his attention, and he follows the rhythm — the pulse beat of battle — until he passes into the cargo hold. As Praz’Hali has told him, the majority of the shipping containers have disappeared or have been shifted tightly against the walls so that the central floor is empty.

Well, mostly empty. In the center of the hold, Mikel and Usi are circling each other, hands up and on guard, their eyes locked together and patiently waiting for an opening. Quoyah limps forward, leaning heavily against the containers that remain. He watches the training partners, trying to measure the advantages of each and to decide who the victor will be. Usi’s back is to him, but he knows the agile speed in her long limbs and the protection provided by her carapace. But Mikel — Mikel is simply a mountain of power, muscle upon muscle, trained and reinforced by his work with the huge interstellar engines that he maintains. Quoyah quietly steps forward and slips up onto a crate, watching the match move forward.

But his motion has distracted the big mechanic, because he sees the little flicker of Mikel’s eyes toward where he is now sitting. Usi sees it, too, and quickly moves in, grasping the human’s arm to help her lever him up, onto her hip, and then over, to land on the heavily padded floor.

Mikel’s laugh echoes around the hold, and Quoyah sees the mechanic grinning up at him. “Good, good!” he says merrily, clambering back to his feet with the help of Usi’s outstretched hand. He claps the Turian on one shoulder and then comes over to sweep Quoyah into a crushing embrace.

“My friend, my friend,” Mikel says, squeezing tightly with his well-muscled arms. “Praz’Hali promised that we should see you again soon, but I could feel the cloud of doubt that hung around us all until we knew. And now that has lifted. You bring the sunshine to our vast darkness.”

“Been reading bad poetry again, have you?” Quoyah asks, returning the embrace with all the energy that he can muster. “Or have you been writing it, Mikel? That seems an even worse torture.”

The mechanic laughs and releases his grip, but slowly, as if he is measuring the reaction of Quoyah’s muscles in the way he might test the couplings in a engine before allowing it to take flight. He has no idea what Mikel is looking for, but the mechanic eventually releases him. Gratefully, Quoyah settles back onto the box and looks at the others training in the hold.

Usi has stepped away from Mikel, closer to where Calena is rolling on the mat with someone whom Quoyah doesn’t recognize. But he has little interest in the match between the two who are struggling for dominance. He watches the Turian, who is standing above the combatants, her arms crossed on her chest, her gaze seemingly locked on the battle at her feet. But even as she watches Calena slip to the side and back of her opponent, she glances over at Quoyah. Meeting Usi’s orange eyes, he smiles, and she nods in response, a short bob of her head that acknowledges that he is there. It is all he can hope for in that moment, and he accepts it reluctantly, knowing that he has wanted more. He wants to feel welcomed, to feel the same joyful gratitude from her that he has received from Calena and Mikel. It irks him, rubbing raw the choice that he has made: the choice to ignore Arabella Sterling’s pleas for rescue and stay with his friends.

It is all that he has thought about since his return from the prison of the feedback loop of his memories — trying to decide whether he should choose Arabella or not. With his emotions firmly controlled, he allowed himself to slide back into the recall of his interactions with her. Dispassionately, he has reviewed the short time that they spent together, and while he cannot be certain that she truly approached the relationship with malice, he has realized that she is part of his past. If there had been a chance to make a future with her, it would have happened years before now, in another place, in another life.

His life is here, now. After the days lost to his eidetic memory, he has finally realized that fact. Reaching out, he grasps Mikel’s shoulder to attract his attention and leans close to his ear to ask, “Who is that grappling with Calena?”

“Valic Tolren,” the mechanic replies. “The Salarian who interrupted our meeting with Enzo Soie.”

Quoyah studies the Asari maiden and her opponent until the Salarian manages to slip from Calena’s grip and back away across the mat. In the opportunity of the break in their match, Usi steps forward and touches the maiden on her shoulder, leading her deeper into the hold and speaking to her in a low voice. The Salarian watches them go and then turns to face Quoyah and Mikel.

“Valic,” Mikel calls, motioning for the Salarian to join them. “This is Quoyah Faha. Valic is a member of the Salarian’s Special Tasks Group and is searching for the scientist that was kidnapped from the bar on the Citadel. Larleed brought him along, since it appears that we will be going in the same direction now.” The mechanic tips his head to one side and looks over at him from the corners of his eyes. “We’re going in the same direction as Valic now, aren’t we, Quoyah?”

He sighs, suddenly feeling his weariness rush through him again, and his head reels, forcing him to close his eyes against the spin of the cargo hold. In the next moment, Mikel’s hand slides onto his shoulder and forces him forward until his head is nearly touching his knees. Breathing deeply, he clenches his teeth against the whirl of vertigo, trying to focus on the voices around him.

“He’s your friend who’s been under the medic’s care,” Valic says in the rapid-fire style that all Salarians have. “Is it wise that he’s here among us? Should I seek out Praz’Hali?”

“No, please,” Quoyah mutters, “do not bother him. I will be fine in a moment.”

Mikel chuckles and pats him gently on the back. When he is finally able to lift his head, his gaze meets that of the Salarian on front of him. Valic stares at him steadily, and Quoyah is able to study the blue-grey skin, splotched here and there with smoky patches, and the deep, brown eyes. “Special Tasks Group?” he asks curiously. “So the kidnapping has attracted the attention of more than just the Citadel security forces? How long have you been on this assignment?”

The Salarian’s eyelids slide upward before Valic responds, “I was assigned to this mission shortly after we became aware of it. Unfortunately, C-Sec wasn’t immediately forthcoming with information about the abduction. They chose to delaying telling our representatives on the Citadel or the Council until one of our Special Tasks Group members heard rumors and started making her own inquiries. I … I volunteered to continue investigations when direct leads … uh … disappeared.”

Quoyah looks over at Mikel and then back at the Salarian. “I suppose it is appropriate then that Larleed brought you aboard our ship. Since I am the one who withheld so much from C-Sec.”

Valic nods. “Larleed and I have been sharing the information that we have. And I have been looking into the data from Lernaean Corporation, but my familiarity with the colloquialism of Earth speech and the mechanics of their systems is fairly limited. Perhaps, during this time, I’ll be able to improve that, but unfortunately it won’t be quickly enough to allow me to be of any significant help in the investigation.”

The big mechanic laughs gently. “Don’t worry about that, Valic. I have more than enough faith in Iskra and Calena and the work they are doing. We will find our next step and move on, and you’ll be welcome to come with us.”

At the mention of her name, the Asari maiden strolls across the mats and stops in front of Quoyah, reaching out to squeeze his knee affectionately. “Mikel, you asked me to remind you that Iskra needs you to spell her at the helm so that we can go into the Lernaean records again.”

Slapping his forehead with one hand, the human replies, “Oh, of course. All this play time has made me forget. Come along, Calena. You, too, Valic. Come protect me from the wrath of my daughter.”

The Asari laughs and slips one hand through the mechanic’s arm, tugging him toward the corridor and chattering with him about their combat practice. Valic Tolren watches them for a moment and then looks over at Quoyah again. With a brief nod, the Salarian trots to catch up with them, disappearing when the cargo hold doors slide together behind them. He sighs deeply, relieved that silence has settled around him again, because the sudden impact of so many personalities after days of being trapped, alone, in his memories, is almost too much. Pressing one hand to his forehead, he lets his eyes slide closed and rests for a moment in the darkness, listening to the sounds of Usi Erocas moving through the hold to put away the equipment that the training partners had used earlier. He slips from the crate and opens his eyes, crossing the floor to where the Turian is stowing equipment.

“I appreciate the throw that you used on Mikel,” he says quietly, “but I am not certain that I have the precise mechanics of it, Usi. Could you demonstrate it for me?”

She looks at him for a long moment, and he knows that she is measuring his fitness, trying to gauge his recovery from the endless looping of his memories and the deprivation that he forced on his own body. At last, she spends long moments explaining the basics of the throw that she has used and then she steps closer to him. She places her hands and guides him to his own grips. Stepping forward, she turns and lifts him on her hip, and he has to fight against the vertiginous feeling of being disconnected from the deck of the ship. She sets him back on his feet and repeats the motion until at last she propels him over her shoulder, maintaining her grip on his sleeve to help minimize his impact on the mats. Using that same arm, Usi helps him to his feet and moves back into her starting position, face-to-face with him, waiting for him to repeat the motions and throw her to the deck. But when he steps forward, his hands gripping her collar and sleeve, he stops.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, letting his hands fall to his sides.

He sees her eyes tighten and waits for the angry response that he is certain she is preparing. Crossing her arms over her chest, she turns away and stalks toward the rear hatch. Wobbling slightly, he follows her until she stops in the darkness of the space between two crates, and she turns to face him.

“Why?” she asks, and he can hear the edge in her voice. But her question has confused him.

“Why what? Why am I apologizing to you? Why do I feel that I have failed again?”

She shakes her head, but he can barely see the motion in the shadows that surround them. “Why me? Why are you apologizing to me, Quoyah? Why do I deserve it?”

“Because I failed you,” he says simply. “Again.”

“I don’t understand you,” she says, angrily brushing at something that she has seen on the corner of one of the large boxes. “I’m … or I was … an officer in C-Sec. I’m perfectly able to take care of myself. I’ve been in fire fights, assaulted by criminals, trained with the most advanced squads of peacekeepers in the universe. I don’t need you to take care of me, Quoyah, and you have absolutely no responsibility for my safety. At all. I’m the one who chose to accept Larleed’s invitation to join this expedition. None of this is your fault.”

He sighs. “I remembered you. When you were injured on the Citadel, I experienced a memory of where we had met. When did you know?”

“From the beginning. When I saw you in the holding cell. I may have been younger then, but I guess Drell don’t change much when they mature.”

“But you did not say anything,” he says, curious as to her self-restraint.

She shrugs. “There was no reason to. I wasn’t the same person you met all those years ago, and even though I knew that you would have the memory of me, I didn’t know whether you had made the connection. I …” Usi hesitates, looking down the length of the cargo hold. “I didn’t really want you to remember me as that girl.”

“A girl that I had done a kindness to? Why should I want to forget her?”

She laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “Because I spent the rest of that assignment being ordered around by the members of the delegation, like some kind of servant. And when we failed our mission, I was dismissed from that ambassador’s service. I barely managed to get accepted to a military unit after that, which really upset my father, I can tell you. He was the one who had arranged my assignment with that group, and he hated that I had failed.”

“You do not think that he was afraid for you, being your father? That he was trying to protect you from danger?”

“It doesn’t matter. All I ever wanted to do was protect other Turians — even other members of the Council races — and he knew that.” She runs one hand across the crown of her head and the short spikes that stick out from the back of it. “If I had wanted his protection …” Her voice trails off, and while he watches, her eyes drop to the floor in front of her boots. 

He lets the silence stretch between them, uncertain whether there is more to her story or not. When she doesn’t speak for long minutes, he finally breaks the silence. “But why did you avoid me when you first came aboard the ship?”

“Because I’d failed again,” Usi admits reluctantly. “I failed you. And after you had been so kind to me all those years ago. I couldn’t get to that woman in time to let us take her in and interrogate her. And then you were the one who had to take care of me, and you wouldn’t let Saren bully me. Voids, Quoyah,” she finally faces him, her eyes seeming to glow in the dim light of the cargo hold. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”

“Not even the memory that overtook you in the receptionist’s office on the Lernaean station? As a Drell, I should have known the power of a few words to lock you away from yourself, Usi.”

She laughs again, but there is more music in the sound this time. “As not a Drell, Quoyah, why should anyone have expected that it could happen?” Their eyes meet, and he smiles at her, willing to accept the forgiveness that she hasn’t offered with words. But just to be certain, he extends a hand toward her. When she takes it, he sighs, grateful to put his guilt behind him.

“I think,” he says quietly, “that we need to learn what this phrase, _’Manifest Destiny,’_ means to the Lernaean Corporation.”

She squeezes his fingers and drops his hand, moving toward the door into the corridor of the ship. “Why do you say that? Kevin told us what it meant.”

He follows her slowly, leaning against crates when they are close enough to bear his weight. Half way through the hold, he stops, gripped by a wave of light-headed vertigo. In response, she reaches out to take his arm, supporting him to the doorway.

“I think that either Kevin was repeating the words of a script that he has memorized,” he says, stopping before the sensors of the door can activate, keeping them together in the cargo hold. “Or that he was lying to us. Either way, there may be something in that phrase that could help us understand something about the corporation and its goals. Perhaps.”

Usi crosses her arms on her chest again, but this time she is looking into the distance, as if considering options. “I wonder …” she begins and then stops.

When she doesn’t continue, he asks, “Yes? You have an idea, Lieutenant Erocas?”

“Well,” she finally says, studying him with an appraising gaze, “since you were unconscious, I’ve spent a lot of time with the other members of our crew. And I’ve learned quite a lot about them.”

Frowning, he motions for her to continue.

“And I was just wondering whether Calena has a close enough relationship with her mother that we could ask her about it.”

“Because she studies ancient native cultures?” he asks, recalling his conversation with the Asari maiden of just days ago. “It would be a place to start.”

Nodding, the Turian steps forward, activating the doorway and leading him out into the corridor of the ship.


	18. Chapter 18

He walks with Usi Erocas in silence, but it is not the same as it had been. Now, here in the tight corridors of the Galygin’s ship, he feels more as if he is with a long-time companion, a compatriot through trials and battle, someone whom he can depend on and who depends on him. It is a different experience for him, and yet somewhere in this connection, Quoyah finds strength and comfort. But beyond Usi, he knows that this connection extends to everyone on the ship right now: Mikel and Iskra, Calena, Praz’Hali, and Larleed. Maybe even Valic at some time, if they travel together long enough. A stability has surrounded him, giving him a base from which he can feel secure in following their leads until they have unraveled the tangle surrounding the death of the Asari prostitute.

And a base from which he can leave his obsession with Arabella Sterling behind.

While he knows that he may never completely lose every trace of the feelings he has experienced with the human woman, he can feel the throbbing pulse beat of his need for her has slowed. He is no longer continually aware of it or her, and his life feels released from her bond on him. Freed.

They reach the door to the ship’s mess, but before they activate the sensor, he reaches out for Usi’s arm. Clasping it tightly, he pulls her a step back, keeping them close together for one more moment.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

He sees her eyes narrow. “What for, Quoyah?” the Turian asks.

“I want to tell you that I appreciate that you have chosen us,” he murmurs, tightening his fingers against the natural armor of her carapace. “You had a command and a career on the Citadel.”

“But now I have a family,” she says, a little note of confusion tinting her voice. “And while that may not ever bring me a commission or status among the command structure in C-Sec … I … I think this is better.”

Quoyah smiles at her, releasing her arm and stepping into the sensor’s range to allow the doors to the mess to slide open. Together, they cross into the brightly lit room, the heart of the crew’s life, much like the engines are the heart of the ship. Scanning the area, he locates Iskra and Calena, their heads tipped close together, staring at the lines of data that slide across the screen in front of them. Larleed hovers behind their shoulders, strangely silent, almost as lost in the lines of text scrolling past as the two females. Praz’Hali and Valic are seated at the table, a datapad between them, speaking to each other in low voices. Mikel is controlling the ship, of course, because his daughter has left her post to sift through their contraband information again.

Here it is, what Usi has called the “family” — the individuals who have chosen this place and work. Quoyah is not certain that they all feel the same way about their commitment to each other, but he is willing to move forward in the belief that, together and working as one, anything will be possible for them. Moving to the chair that he has occupied in the past at the table, he slides into it, feeling the grateful sag of muscles that haven’t been used for more than a week. He crosses his arms on the table in front of him and lets his forehead settle against them, sinking into the soothing blackness. The chattering of the two females fades into the background, and the level of Praz’Hali and Valic’s conversation has never risen to a level that impinges on his consciousness, so he continues to ignore it.

Until he hears the clatter of something on the table in front of him. Looking up, he sees Praz’Hali leaning over him, a spoon in one hand and extended to a place where he might easily grasp it. He smiles at the Quarian and accepts the utensil.

“Eat,” the medic says, relinquishing the spoon. “You need to recover your strength, Quoyah.”

“I am not certain that you imagined doing so much doctoring when you agreed to come with us,” he says, dipping into the bowl that Praz’Hali has placed in front of him.

The Quarian laughs. “With you, it’s little more that nursemaid work. If any of you need any _real_ doctoring, I’ll be certain to send you a bill.”

Quoyah laughs and shovels a spoon of the warm, hearty, grain-based cereal into his mouth, appreciating the heat that suffuses through his body. Between moments of swirling his spoon through the grains and slipping the utensil into his mouth, he studies the others gathered in the mess. He sees Usi cross to Calena’s side a lean down to whisper in the Asari maiden’s ear, but he is unprepared for her violent reaction to the Turian’s words.

“What?” she exclaims, pushing away from the screen in front of her. “No! I don’t need to do that!”

“B-but the information,” Usi stutters, blinking at the force of Calena’s outburst.

“It’s just data,” she replies, a frown creasing her brow. “We can find data anywhere.”

“And have you?” the Turian asks forcefully, trying to regain control of the interaction. “Have you been able to find anything in any of the records that we have about what the phrase means? I know that you’ve been looking.”

Calena hangs her head, her fingers picking at the leg of her pants with an angry flicking motion. Because they have been so close together, Iskra has also heard the exchange, and she casually leans back in her chair, looking between the two while she replies. “We haven’t been able to locate an explanation beyond the propaganda that Lernaean Corporation publishes in their public documents. It’s almost word-for-word what Kevin told us. Which, of course, makes me suspicious of it. Why do you think that Calena’s mother can help with it, Usi?”

But it’s the Asari maiden who replies. “Because she studies ancient indigenous cultures. I know that she spent time on Earth after the mass relays allowed travel there — and the Earthlings managed to understand that interaction with the Citadel races could be a positive thing for them.”

“Hey!” the human woman says, slapping the back of her hand against Calena’s arm. “It didn’t take _all_ of us very long to realize it. Just the stupid people in control of the major governmental structures.”

The Asari frowns at her and then continues, “But just because we can’t find the data now, it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist. We just haven’t looked in the right place yet.”

Larleed turns away from the screen, head tilted to one side. “But Calena, dear, we’ve even had reports from the Shadow Broker’s systems. If there’s nothing there …”

“Or it might not be something that is available through codified data systems,” the human pilot says, draping one arm over the back of her chair. “This could just be a colloquial saying from more ancient Earth that has been deemed passé enough that it has been stricken from their records. Someone who’s studied cultural history might …”

“I … we don’t need to do this!” Calena says, quickly rising to her feet. “My mother … I’m not certain … It’s really not …”

The Volus reaches out and wraps one hand around her arm. “Calena, dear, if it’s easier this way, wouldn’t it be wiser to at least make the attempt to contact your mother? If it would help us complete at least that part of our investigation more quickly?”

The Asari maiden huffs her breath out in a quick exhale and crosses her arms on her chest. Chewing on her lower lip, she seems to consider her options, and Quoyah can see her shoulders sag at the moment when she agrees with their arguments. “Fine,” she says reluctantly. “I’ll try to contact her.”

Iskra rises from her chair, stepping closer to her friend. “Come on,” she invites, “I’ll set up the link through the communications system in the cockpit. It’s got a greater range than what I can do here in the mess.” She starts toward the door and adds, “And then you can be alone there, if that’s what you want.”

The Asari maiden follows, her shoulders slumped in an admission of her defeat. “Thanks,” she mutters, disappearing into the corridor outside the mess.

Before she leave, Iskra stops beside him and places one hand on his shoulder. “Nice to see you out of the past, Quoyah,” she whispers in his ear, leaning closer so that no one else can hear her. “And here I thought that the most annoying thing for you in Soie’s office was going to be the cloak.”

He laughs, covering her hand with his own and squeezing it tightly. “I had thought so, too. I cannot be certain, but it may have tripped me when I started to pursue Arabella.”

Straightening, she replies softly, “Then I’m glad you took it. I have to go help Calena. Let me know where I need to drop you off, if that’s what you choose.”

Meeting her mis-matched eyes, he shakes his head gently, hoping that the motion will convey the correct message. When she smiles brightly at him, he sighs gratefully. In the next moment, she is hugging him tightly, and he wraps his arms around her to respond with equal affection. He even riffles her two-toned hair when she pulls away, to which she responds by sticking her tongue out at him. She walks past him, into the corridor, where Calena is waiting for her, wiggling her fingers in farewell as she goes.

“Usi,” Praz’Hali calls across the room, “I would like to show Valic how I applied the bonding agent to your carapace breach, now that I am not completely occupied with keeping Quoyah alive. Would you mind?”

“No, of course not,” she replies, crossing to where he and the Salarian have risen from their seats at the table. “Whenever it’s convenient for you.”

The Quarian nods and leads the three individuals from the room, leaving Quoyah in his seat with his bowl of warm cereal and Larleed standing beside the screen across the room, watching the continuing scroll of text. He’s not certain that the merchant is actually looking for anything, but it is hard to tell. Finally, he rises from his place, taking his dishes to the cleansing module and leaves them there. Leaning back against the wall of the mess, he crosses his arms and watches for a few long moments. When the Volus continues to ignore him, he walks to stand behind Larleed, wrapping his arms around the little merchant’s shoulder. Leaning forward, he presses his lips against the top of the enviro-suited head and whispers, “I choose you, Larleed Bar.”

He feels the Volus sigh and shift weight to lean back against him. “Quoyah Faha, you had better not be playing me for a fool. Because I will never be able to forgive myself.”

He chuckles and squeezes his arms around the tear-drop shape in front of him. “I would never dare, Larleed. Break my word to an agent of the Shadow Broker? And risk the wrath of the entire universe descending on me? I would truly be a fool to even try.”

A loud sniff rattles through the speaker on the front of Bar’s environmental suit. “You should know better than to make me cry, Quoyah,” the Volus says. “It wreaks all kinds of havoc on the electronics in my suit.”

Releasing his hold on Larleed, he steps closer to the screen of scrolling data and leans closer to examine the text. “What have you found?” he asks, curious as to the meaning of the strange characters flowing past his eyes. “I assume that Calena and Iskra are invaluable to you in this, Larleed. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Bar replies, taking the chair that the pilot had recently occupied and rolling closer to the monitor. “Iskra actually understands the Earth language that Lernaean Corporation uses for its internal communications, and Calena was able to quickly learn the patterns of the key phrases that we are looking for in the data. They have managed to locate a few corporate memos, but there was a portion of the files that were heavily encrypted. Iskra has been working on a method to allow us access to them, and I think she is very close …” The Volus’s voice trails off.

“Can you tell me what you are finding most of the time? And what is worrying you so, Larleed?”

Bar turns and looks up at him, the eyes behind the amber lenses blinking furiously. “Genophage. Iskra has found the word in more than forty of the memos that we have had immediate access to. All connecting to some research laboratory that Lernaean has hidden in the universe. We don’t know what they’re doing with the genophage or why they’re interested in it. And we don’t know where they’re working on it.”

“And the Shadow Broker just gave them more data to help them with it?” he questions, feeling his stomach sink toward the deck.

“It would seem that way,” Larleed answers reluctantly. “But I wasn’t privy to the information that the Shadow Broker provided to Lernaean; I was only the messenger. However, I find it very hard to believe that he would risk even one species to the depravation of another genophage, having lived through what has happened to the Krogans.”

“Loss of sentient species does tend to reduce the amount of data that is available in the universe,” Quoyah teases, crossing to the table so that he can lean back against it. “The Shadow Broker could put himself out of business.”

“Not a choice he is likely to make rationally,” Larleed says, touching the screen to still the constant scroll of text. “I should leave this for Iskra and Calena. They have a much better …”

The door to the mess slides open, and Mikel steps into the room, stretching his long arms upward so that they almost touch the ceiling. “Once again,” the mechanic complains, “ejected from my pilot’s station. This daughter of mine, she seems to have become very headstrong.”

He smiles at the Volus before he turns toward Mikel. The mechanic slips into a chair at the table and then reaches into pockets on his utility pants to retrieve an grime-covered part and a cloth, which he uses to rub the dirt away. He continues, “Calena has agreed to allow us to join in the conversation with her matron. Iskra tells me that it will be after the ‘pleasantries,’ but Calena made a horrible face at that, so perhaps it will just be when the arguing has died down. It’s hard for me to know how interactions between mothers and their daughters actually go.”

Quoyah shrugs at the question in the human’s voice, and Mikel continues, “My sisters always respected our mother, but they were gone from the house by the time that I was aware of their relationships. This is what you get when you’re the baby of the family.”

“Baby?” Larleed interjects, a laugh coming from enviro-suit’s speaker.

Mikel grins broadly. “In age, not stature, my friend. Besides, being last born gave me plenty of room to spread out …”

The crackle of the ship’s internal communications system draws their attention, and silence quickly surrounds them. Levering away from the table, Quoyah moves so that he has a direct view of the screen. An Asari with frosty blue eyes and a slight dusting of lavender freckles on her face appears, her mouth moving quickly as she speaks. When the sound finally processes through the system, he can finally hear her voice. In that moment, it seems to him that she truly becomes Calena’s mother.

“… so happy that you’ve finally taken some interest in my work, Calena,” she says, rising and crossing to a collection of notebooks that line the wall behind her.

“I’ve always been interested, Mother,” the Asari maiden replies, and Quoyah’s eyes flicker over to the little inset picture of Calena with Iskra standing just behind her shoulder, her blue-green hair highlighted by the instrument lights around them. “I just didn’t want to make it *my** work. So, have you heard that phrase, *’Manifest Destiny,’** before or not? I hate to jam up the ship’s communications if you’re …”

“Just checking a reference, Calena.” Quoyah hears the little edge in the older Asari’s voice. She returns to her chair with a narrow booklet in her hands and opens it after she has taken her seat again. “I heard the phrase in relation to some more ancient Earth history, not anything in the last two centuries at least. It was …” She turns pages in her notebook until she suddenly stops, one finger pressing between the pieces of paper. “Yes, it’s a phrase that the Earthlings used to justify their expansion into different land mass areas, whether they were already occupied or not. A group called ‘Americans’ used it to spread out from their established settlements and used this idea of ‘Manifest Destiny’ to justify their treatment of the actual native peoples of the land. To those who use it, it’s a statement of their divine right to their actions and to the spoils of their expansion. In many cases, they believe that their deity has made their success a certainty.”

“And now the Lernaean Corporation has taken that idea into space,” Quoyah Faha mutters, feeling his heart sink toward the starship’s deck.


	19. Chapter 19

“But there is no reason to believe that Arabella Sterling has a thing to do with any of the possible goals of Lernaean Corporation,” he tries to argue, but Quoyah can already feel his doubts growing, even as the words escape his mouth. He looks around the mess, trying to find confirmation in any of the faces around the table. And failing.

“We know that you want to think that, Quoyah,” Mikel says softly, “but it’s harder for us to believe it.”

“Especially considering that she’s tried to kill you,” Larleed adds with a bitter tone in the voice that comes through the enviro-suit’s speaker. “Twice.”

“So there’s also no reason to believe that she isn’t completely aware of the true nature of the corporation’s slogan,” Usi Erocas adds, her arms crossed tightly on her chest. “She’s part of the foundations of the business. She has to know their goals and plans.”

“Unless she actually is the universal socialite that she appears to be,” Quoyah argues, unwilling to slide completely into a denial of the woman who has fascinated him for so many years. “And we have no reason to believe that she is connected to the corporation.”

“Except for the fact that it has been in her family for generations now,” Larleed continues arguing. “It’s very unlikely that they would cede control of such a powerful business to anyone who wasn’t actually related to them. And which do you think would be safer, Quoyah: to believe that she is blameless in all of the company’s machinations and that she just accidentally tried to kill you …”

“Twice,” Usi and Mikel say in unison, and Larleed gestures toward them, as if to reinforce their comment.

The Volus continues, “Or to assume that she is at least partially aware of their designs?”

Quoyah sighs and slides both sets of his eyelids shut, feeling defeat lurking behind him like his own shadow. But he has to admit to himself that it is the more reasonable option — and one that will keep him and the rest of his compatriots safer than assuming that Arabella is no threat.

He has spent the last two days trying to adjust his thinking into this new paradigm: that Arabella Sterling is as dangerous as the corporation over which her family maintains majority stock ownership. And while he has been able to release his burning attachment to her, it has been more difficult for him to cultivate anywhere near the same mistrust that Larleed Bar has for the human woman. Or Usi Erocas has, although what Arabella did to her to cause so much animosity, Quoyah has yet to learn. Valic has his own reasons to be suspicious of Lernaean Corporation, and he can see how easily the Salarian has allowed his attitude to color potential interaction with any Sterling associated with the company. And, of course, Mikel is one of the people who rescued him from what Larleed would call Arabella’s first attempt on his life. 

More than half the crew is already ranged against the woman and her corporation, and simply knowing that fact should force him to prepare to deal with their negative pre-conceptions. It is wiser — safer — to allow himself to work within the strictures of the others’ judgement of the situation. And if the assumptions that they have made are proven false …

Iskra’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and he opens his eyes to look over at the two-tone of her gaze. “I still don’t have the codes that I need to transmit to the station for docking,” she says. “So unless you’re going to just free-fall down to the research facility …”

Larleed replies, voice still as edgy as it has been throughout their conversation. “We will have the codes as soon as we’ve finished loading this shipment. My contacts have guaranteed that this delivery is expected, and they were more than happy to accept the additional compensation to turn the contract over to us.”

“Bribe,” the pilot replies, a wicked little grin crossing her face. She winks at Quoyah before she continues. “You mean ‘bribe,’ and it _was_ a bribe, so you might as well use the correct terminology, Larleed. You’re not fooling us anyway.”

“No, Iskra, of course not. The only ones we need to fool are the docking station controllers at the research facility.”

Calena adds, “We’ve take care of that. The ship will be exactly what the docking systems on the research station are looking for. We’ll be able to hook up to the platform and begin the delivery.”

“And our own exploration of the facility,” Valic Tolren says, his fingers nervously skimming across the surface of the table. “How can you be certain that this is where they brought Dr. Malon?”

“We’re not _certain_ , exactly,” Iskra says. “It’s just the best choice that we’ve been able to make based on Soie’s internal communications with the head of this research unit.”

Praz’Hali adds, “From the translations that Iskra and Calena have shown me, this facility directly aligns with Dr. Malon’s area of specialization and interest in genetic coding.”

“We also haven’t been able to locate another Lernaean property that is a center for bio-medical research or production,” Larleed sighs, brushing one hand across the black arm of the environmental suit — a dull, serious outfit that Quoyah knows reflects the Volus’s uncertainty and unease. “At the very least, it is the most obvious place to start.”

“Obvious from your analysis of documents that were stolen from Enzo Soie’s private communications system in the Lernaean corporate headquarters,” the Quarian mutters. “Are we operating on a sliding scale for our levels of criminality? Or just pushing it all aside to achieve our own goals?”

Quoyah looks over at the medic, but it is and always will be difficult to read any emotions from the Citadel races who are trapped in environmental suits. For Praz’Hali and the other Quarians, their entire existence — from the moment they are born — revolves around the suits. Because their immune systems have been so radically compromised as a result of the loss of their home world, the species cannot live for even a moment outside of their suits, including the semi-opaque respirator masks that obscure their features. Even their vast fleet of ships cannot be adapted to protect them from a chance encounter with a germ or microbe that would devastate the entire crew and their families.

Not being able to read the medic’s expression, he can only go by the angry tone of Praz’Hali’s voice. But Larleed is faster to react to the question, perhaps because the little merchant is already on edge.

“You can question our methods all you want, Praz’Hali nar Zephyne. But if our conjectures are correct, we are working to prevent something that will devastate the entire universe.”

“And you can be so certain that you’re right? That you’ve correctly divined through all the information that you have stolen and arrived at the correct potential outcome.”

Iskra leans toward the Quarian and places one hand on his arm. “We may not be right. Dark voids, I hope that we aren’t. In one way, it’s the worst potential blight that could affect the races of the Citadel …”

“Except for the humans,” the medic growls, pulling his arm away from the pilot’s touch as if he has been singed. “Your race will be positioned to benefit greatly from the success of Lernaean Corporation.”

Mikel rises to his feet, placing both hands flat on the surface of the table, and leans closer to the Quarian. “No, you have that wrong. Not all humans will benefit from the actions that the company might take. Only the members of their boards of directors and their employees will be positioned to gain in the future they would create. Because we don’t all believe what Lernaean believes.”

The Quarian laughs bitterly. “Really? You don’t all think that you were sent by your god into the vast reaches of space? Your deity didn’t show you the way to the technology and the mass relays so that your seed could be sewn across the galaxies? That you don’t deserve to call the universe your home?”

It’s the sound of Iskra’s sob that stops Praz’Hali from continuing his ranting tirade against the humans and their expansion into the universe. Looking over at the young woman, Quoyah sees tears sparkling on her long lashes and watches while she scrubs the trail of one tear away from the curve of her cheek. Pushing her chair away from the table, she stands up and faces the Quarian, her lower lip trembling until she takes it between her teeth. Finally, when she has recovered herself, she speaks.

“We deserve a home in the universe as much as the Quarians do, Praz’Hali nar Zephyne. And we can only earn it through hard work and dedication to the success of all the races that we meet.” Having said that, she walks quickly out of the doors that lead away from the ship’s mess, her back very straight and her stride determinedly even.

Quoyah watches her go and then looks over at the Quarian, who is staring at the flat surface of the table in front of him. After a moment of silence, Praz’Hali glances up and surveys they faces staring at him from their places in the mess. He straightens and rubs one hand over the top of his head, encased in the environmental suit.

“I should go speak with her,” he says reluctantly, turning and walking from the room. After the doors slide closed behind him, Quoyah hears an audible sigh travel through the individuals at the table.

“Perhaps we’re all feeling just a little too much strain from our conjectures,” Mikel suggests, staring at the door that has closed behind his daughter and the Quarian. “And my Iskra has been in the center of it. Along with Calena.”

The Asari maiden waves her hand as if she can wipe away the mechanic’s suggestion that she may be suffering under the burden of what she has discovered. “Iskra’s the one who started putting everything together. And she’s actually understood everything that she’s read in the corporate files.”

“She’s been hips-deep in it for too long,” Mikel says, sagging back into his chair. “When she hasn’t been piloting us back and forth through the mass relays. Perhaps she just needs a little bit of a break.”

“We all do,” Larleed says.

“But if we don’t continue to pursue our leads,” Valic adds, “the opportunity to either prevent an incident or to recover Dr. Malon may disappear. Even if it is still only an educated guess, we need to operate as if it is the truth. We cannot allow the Lernaean Corporation to continue to develop a genophage coded to the genetics of another Citadel race.”

Quoyah looks around at the faces that remain at the table, seeing the same haunted dread that he feels roiling in his own stomach. The Krogan Genophage may have seemed like the only way to combat the race’s prolific spread throughout the universe, but he has never been certain that the Salarian scientists who developed it had known that it would so thoroughly damage the ability of the species to reproduce.

And it is possible that Lernaean Corporation is adapting the Krogan Genophage to wreak the same havoc on the reproduction processes of all of the non-human races of the universe.

Extinction has always loomed in front of the Drell, whose home planet has been turned into a toxic wasteland, forcing them to accept the Hanar’s rescue and a new home on Kahje. But Quoyah knows that they are able to move forward, because his species still has the hope of their children — healthy, energetic youngsters who grow strong and beget more children in most cases. The Krogan Genophage has ripped that hope from the entire species, disproportionately reducing the number of healthy females and successful births, leaving any kind of familial structure crumbling throughout their worlds. Extinction casts a lengthy shadow behind any Krogan in the universe.

If they are right, it will cast its darkness behind another species.

Or more than one.

He sighs and looks around the table at the distant gazes of his compatriots. Except for Mikel, they are the races that are threatened by what Lernaean Corporation could do with a modified genophage: Salarain, Asari, Turian, Volus, Drell. He has no way to know which might be threatened first; Quoyah only knows that they must take their suspicions and use them to find the research center.

“I …” Calena starts and then looks over at Mikel. “I’m going to go see if there’s anything I can do for Iskra.” She pushes away from the table and moves to leave the mess, pausing in the doorway to look back over her shoulder. “The genophage … If they adapt it, it will affect the females of any species like it affected the Krogans, right?”

Quoyah sees the shadow of pain and fear on the Asari maiden’s face and knows that she has seen the truth of their conjectures. It is a great threat to her species: Asari all are — or at least appear to be — female, and the genophage affects the female ability to bear healthy, viable infants. If Lernaean Corporation develops a genophage targeted at the Asari, it’s likely that every member of the population will bear its effects and then pass them along to their daughters. 

Catastrophic doom, indeed, he thinks.

“We might be wrong,” he says, his voice dripping with the sorrow that has wrapped itself around his heart. “But our greatest hope has to be that we’ll find the research facility in time.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “I’ll be ready.” Stepping out into the corridor, she moves off toward her quarters, disappearing from sight when the doors slide closed. Almost immediately after she is gone, Larleed Bar rises and begins to follow.

“Mikel,” the Volus says, “I still need you to look at the environmental controls on my room. Because this outfit has made me overly maudlin, and I need to choose something to lighten my mood.”

The mechanic rises and follows Bar from the mess, waving at the rest of them as he goes. Inhaling deeply, Quoyah looks over at Usi Erocas, who is leaning against the wall in her usual place, frowning down at the table in front of her.

“I think …” she begins, but the Salarian interrupts her.

“I apologize if I am overstepping, but I have been confused about the Volus since we met in Enzo Soie’s office. Is he … it … male or female?” Valic’s eyelids slide upward repeatedly, a nervous blink that Quoyah has noticed before.

He shrugs. “Does it matter?” he suggests. “Larleed Bar chooses to be Larleed Bar. It is the mystery that is important, and it keeps those who cannot be comfortable with the uncertainty in a state of unease. Larleed has used it successfully for years, and I have seen it change a situation from negative to positive. For Larleed.”

“I’ve only known Larleed more personally for a short time now,” Usi adds, levering her shoulders away from the wall. “To be honest, it’s easier to accept the Larleed that walks through the door any morning that it is to try to determine what some might call the ‘underlying truth.’”

“I see,” the Salarian says, his fingers moving restlessly over the table. “And you trust Larleed, even with this most basic kind of deceptiveness?”

Usi crosses her arms on her chest. “But there isn’t any deception. As Quoyah said, Larleed is Larleed, exactly as seen any moment of any day. In that same vein, I’m wondering whether you haven’t been deceiving us — at least a little.”

Quoyah can see the Salarian stiffen, and he leans forward with his elbows on the table, placing his chin in his hand while he studies Valic Tolren’s reaction. The hand stops its arc of motion, and his eyes close for a long moment. Finally, when Valic has opened his eyes again, he looks over at the Turian.

“I’m not certain that I understand your implication, Lieutenant Erocas,” the Salarian says mildly.

She shrugs. “I was simply wondering why a member of the Salarian Special Tasks Group has been assigned to a rescue mission — alone — for a genetic scientist who may or may not have been useful for the goals of the Lernaean Corporation. Something in this isn’t adding up to me. You can blame my years in C-Sec, if you need to, but I would feel much better if you could clear things up. Why exactly are you looking for Dr. Malon alone, Valic?”

The Salarian blinks rapidly, and his hand starts sweeping across the top of the table again. Quoyah sees him swallow and then push away from the table. Looking between him and Usi, Valic rises to his feet.

“Dr. Malon and I have known each other since childhood, and I worked with her on a data retrieval project a few years ago,” he explains. “We became closer and …” Valic pauses and looks at both of them again, “… and it seemed logical that we should procreate. We had approached our families about the prospect and been approved … and so … I have …”

“You’re committed to your mate,” Usi says. “It explains everything perfectly.”

Valic blinks and tips his head to on side. “Why does this help? What have I said?”

Quoyah smiles at the Salarian. “You are protecting your future. It is what we are all fighting for. It is the only thing that truly matters. And so, we will fight with you.”


	20. Chapter 20

Quoyah leans forward to look at the display that Iskra is using to maneuver into the delivery dock at the Lernaean Corporation research facility that they suspect of being most closely involved with the abduction of Dr. Malon. The ship moves smoothly into place, but they have received no communication from the docking controllers or any kind of management from the station. It has put them all on edge — even more than they had been simply from the conjectures that they had created about the goals of the company — but for the moment, they are simply working with mechanical operations that most of them have accomplished time and again. He trusts that their pilot will connect them safely; he just has to wonder what else is waiting for them.

“Still nothing from the docking coordinators?” he asks again, knowing that she hasn’t received any communication from outside of the ship.

Iskra shakes her head. “No, Quoyah,” she says, toggling the switch that will activate their own magnetic docking mechanisms. “I’m only getting static on the official channels.”

“I haven’t been able to find any signals with my sweeps, either,” Mikel adds from his position to the side of his daughter’s seat. After a moment, he suggests once again, “Perhaps we were wrong about this facility?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” the pilot replies, sliding the ship closer to the gantries. They all feel the shudder as the ship’s docking clamps attach themselves to the superstructure of the research facility’s dock. Reaching down, Quoyah squeezes Iskra’s shoulder and whispers encouragement to her. He feels her shrug, but he lets his hand linger, trying to bolster her confidence — or perhaps his own — before they disembark into the unknown. When he feels her release the restraints that keep her safely in her pilot’s seat, he eases his grip on her shoulder and steps toward the exit from the cockpit.

“All right,” he says, trying to overlay his own uncertainty with his confidence in his skills and the abilities of his compatriots. “Are you certain that we shouldn’t keep at least one of you on the ship in case we need to escape quickly?”

Iksra steps from her pilot’s seat and over to her father’s side. “It’s not necessary, Quoyah,” she repeats, straightening her armor and holstering the hand blasters that Mikel extends toward her. He helps tighten the straps that she can’t reach until he has reassured himself that she will be protected from whatever is to come.

“If you’re certain …” he begins, but she interrupts him.

“I have my systems set up for intruder lock-out, and I can remotely kick the engines up from their stand-by mode from anywhere in the research facility.” She nods to her father and then focuses on him with her blue-and-green gaze. “No one will be able to get into my ship, and I’ll be able to get us out a hell of a lot faster than I docked us here.” She pauses but then she reaches out and wraps the fingers of one hand around his arm. “Trust me, okay? I will take care of all of you, no matter what.”

He smiles back at her and is about the lead them from the compartment when a loud sniff echoes around them. Before he can move, Mikel sweeps his daughter into his arms, holding her tightly against his wide chest.

“That’s my girl!” he crows, rocking her from side to side.

“Batya!” Iskra scolds, a little laugh in her voice. “You’re giving them more time to prepare for our arrival. Are you honestly that eager for a fire fight?”

Her father releases her and interlaces his fingers. Extending his arms in front of him, he cracks the knuckles of his fingers, the sound sending a shiver of anticipation through Quoyah.

“Let’s go,” he says and steps into the corridor. With long, eager strides, he leads them into the hold, weaving between the large crates until he finds the rest of their crew standing in front of the still-closed rear hatch.

Usi Erocas steps up to him and extends his weapon — a short, high-powered blast rifle that has been with him since his first assignment with the Hanar. He slides one hand across its muzzle, knowing that, later, so much energy will have passed through it that it will be dangerous to touch. Nodding his thanks to the Turian, he steps in front of the rear hatch and then turns and scans their little group.

“First priority: find and recover Dr. Malon, if she is in this facility as we expect. Second priority: recover any data that we can find in their systems.”

“Calena and I will focus on that,” Iskra adds, rocking forward and back on her feet, working to control her energy before she steps out of the ship. “We’re heading straight to the data center to start our hack. If necessary, we’ll just rip the storage modules from the system and bring them back to the ship.”

“We’ll start out together,” Quoyah says, drawing back the firing mechanism of his weapon to charge it for battle. “Let’s go.”

Iskra activates the ramp, and while Quoyah waits for access to the docking bay gantries, the other members of their party move to the sides where they will still be protected by the framing of the ramp opening. Except for Larleed Bar, who steps up beside him, apparently unarmed and prepared to complete the off-loading of the supplies. Just as it should be.

“You get me into the most untenable situations, Quoyah,” the Volus teases in a low whisper.

“Me?” he replies under the rumble of the ramp lowering in front of him. “All I asked for was information. You are the one who invited yourself on this misadventure.”

“I suppose that some might look at it that way,” Larleed replies. “But how could I let you come alone? You see — untenable.”

The ramp slams open in front of them, and the merchant moves forward, just the faintest shimmer of biotic energy encompassing Larleed’s teardrop body. Quoyah follows slowly, rifle pointed at the deck, but his eyes continually scan the structures around him.

“Delivery!” the Volus calls as loudly as possible. “Stocks for the station.”

The ping blast of a weapon sends Quoyah forward, rushing to find protection among the crates that are arranged against the walls. He dives into the shadows, pressing his back against the hard, plastic covering of a cube of goods. The sound of weapons firing behind him spreads throughout the chasmic docking area, and he can feel that creeping, static feeling of the bolts that fly from the pistols and rifles around. Tipping himself around the corner of the crate in front of him, he scans the hallway that leads into the research center and whips back after he has identified his potential targets. The next moment, he rises and fires, taking out one opponent and giving himself the opportunity to move rapidly forward, his weapon raised in anticipation. But as he moves, the second opponent that he had identified is lifted and spins lazily in a bubble of blue-white biotic energy. In the next instant, the armored facility guard flies across the hallway and slams into the opposite wall, crumpling down into an unconscious pile.

Larleed Bar steps up beside him again.

“This isn’t a very warm welcome for a crew who’s making a simple delivery,” the Volus says, brushing one hand across a sleeve of the dark enviro-suit.

“I am pleased then,” Quoyah replies, advancing to a corner where the hallway that they are in intersects with a perpendicular corridor, “that we were prepared not to be warmly welcomed.”

He angles his body out to check the cross hall and then leans back to wait for the others to join them. In a moment, the rest of the crew is there, and Usi Erocas presses into the wall beside him, a look of determined concentration on her face. He nods to her and allows her to pass him, following her after a brief pause, his back within inches of her armor as he walks facing toward the opposite end of the corridor. When she stops, he curls around her and dashes to the other side of the hallway, looking down the cross and pulling back quickly when he identifies another group of guards moving toward them. Catching Usi’s eye, he signals his count and adds her estimate of the forces coming in the other direction. When Mikel settles in beside him, he pulls the big mechanic close and speaks directly into his ear.

“I have four on this side, and Usi has six. Has Iksra determined where the data facilities are?”

“She and Calena are preparing to take a right here.”

“That’s where the six are,” he says, his gut clenching momentarily in fear for his friends. “You, Valic, and Praz’Hali come with me to locate the doctor. Send everyone else to retrieve the research.”

Mikel nods and dashes across to his daughter’s side under the cover of fire from his and Usi’s weapons. He ignores the conversations behind him, knowing that his compatriots will follow his instructions without question. Feeling the big mechanic at his side again, he looks over at Usi and sees her nod grimly at him. Almost as one being, he steps into the cross hallway at same time that she does, his rifle sending regular pulses of energy down toward the guards waiting for them at the next branching of the corridor. Valic Tolren dashes past him into the cover of a recessed doorway, his weapon barking blasts of power as he goes.

When Mikel shoulders past him, he falls behind the big human, his eyes continually scanning the hallway, alert to new threats. He catches a glimpse of Iskra’s blue-green hair as she moves with the others in the opposite direction and struggles to press down the feeling of dread that rises in his belly. Blinking rapidly, he pushes the sensation away and steps closer to the mechanic’s back.

“Clear,” he hears Valic call back to them, and they quickly group up, alert and ready for the next battle.

They advance together, always double-checking their flanks, keeping a vigilant eye behind them. Every time he looks back, Quoyah secretly hopes that he will see Usi leading Larleed, Iskra, and Calena back to join them, but he knows that it will take more time to locate the data storage centers and download the information that they’re seeking. Instead, he presses them forward, pulling open doors to ensure that they will not be attacked from the rear and clearing whatever opposition they encounter with deadly efficiency.

“Here!” Mikel calls eventually, pulling open a doorway and gesturing for them to enter. “It’s labeled ‘laboratory.’ We should check in here.”

Nodding, Quoyah slips past the mechanic and steps into the large room on the other side of the portal. His eyes sweep the space, noticing the disarray in what he would expect to be an extremely tidy room. Wires spark from the ceiling, and loose papers rustle across the floor in front of him. Stepping forward to make room for the others, he begins to cross toward a door that he can see on the opposite wall and then stops, stunned, by that he sees.

The back wall of the laboratory is lined with large glass tubes filled with a green liquid that bubbles slowly, an oozing passage of gas through the more viscous material. Each of these tubes surrounds the body of one of the species that fills their galactic space: Turian, Asari, Salarian, Volus, Hanar, Drell … but no Krogan or humans in any of the storage units as far as he can see. It only seems to confirm their suspicions, and he can feel his stomach sink toward his toes at the thought of a new, genetically targeted genophage being unleashed in the universe.

When he steps closer to the storage units, he gets a clearer picture of each of the individual species floating inside. Abdomens split open. Organs removed. Eye sockets staring back at him blankly. Limbs severed and lost somewhere in the experiments that Lernaean Corporation has been running. The containers create a ghastly image of disregard for the sanctity of life and of a determination to dominate all the worlds in their universe. Quoyah swallows hard and moves past the tubes, pushing aside his curiosity about how these individuals ended up here and whether their families miss them. It is too much to imagine their pasts or the places that they should have been occupying that are far away from this research facility.

He is about to pull open the door that he had been moving toward when a rattling crash echoes around the room behind him, and he turns to see Tolren standing beside a metal tray that is on its side, the instruments that had been on it scattered across the floor at his feet. The Salarian blinks at him and steps backward from the rack, a frown creasing Valic’s forehead.

“I apologize …” he begins, only to stop when the sound of metal pounding against metal echoes around the room. Quoyah follows the line of Tolren’s gaze to a door that is set back between a pair large, metal cabinets, one of which has fallen on its side, blocking the doorway. Raising his rifle, he steps forward.

“Hey!” He hears the call from the other side of the door. “Hey! Who’s out there? Can you help us?”

Levering the fallen cabinet out of the way, Quoyah studies the door, seeing that it has an electronic locking mechanism on it. He motions to Mikel who trots over, Valic and Praz’Hali in his wake, and the large mechanic studies the panel briefly. Reaching into a pocket in his armor, the human pulls out a small tool and inserts it into the side of the lock mechanism, turning it until the cover plate pops away from the wall. After he selects some wires, he crosses them into different positions, and the door falls back into the room. Quoyah raises his rifle and waits for what will come.

“It’s all right,” a voice says, and a Salarian steps from the room they have just opened. “We’re just scientists. We were working here, employed by the company, for their research. They came in and started blasting all of our equipment. We hid in here, but we couldn’t get out because of the cabinet.”

Valic shoulders him aside. “Dr. Malon. Dala Malon. Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?”

The Salarian researcher blinks at them and looks back into the room he has just left. Taking it as an unspoken signal, Tolren pushes past them, and Quoyah follows. He finds a few other individuals of disparate races huddled together and a Salarian stretched out on the floor. Valic rushes to that person, lifting the still body in his arms.

“Dala!” he moans, rocking her against his chest.

“Praz’Hali!” Quoyah barks, moving farther into the room to allow the medic to reach the two Salarians. He watches the Quarian’s long fingers wrap around Dr. Malon’s arm and then lower one eyelid.

“She’s alive,” he says quietly. “But there’s not a lot I can do for her here. We should get her back to the ship.”

Mikel comes up to them, swinging his weapon over his shoulder and reaching down to cradle the unconscious Salarian in his arms. He looks over at Quoyah and nods.

“Mikel, take Dr. Malon back to the ship,” he says authoritatively, looking around at the others in the room. “Praz’Hali, you’ll need to go, too, and do everything that you can for her. Valic, take these other scientists back with you and get them settled in on the ship. Then you can help Praz’Hali with the doctor.”

He follows behind the small group of survivors, watching for an attack from one of the other hallways that branches from the one that they are using. When nothing comes, Quoyah returns to the laboratory and the door that leads away from the docking area. Pushing it open, he moves deeper into the research station, determined to find Usi and his other crew mates. He races forward — always ready for that moment when he will need to fight — taking out the sentries and obstacles that stand in his way as he moves toward where Iskra and Calena have assumed that the data center will be. He bursts out into the upper level balcony of what appears to be a large cafeteria and moves forward to the railing. The space is in as much of a disarray as the laboratory had been, with exposed wires dangling from open conduits and papers blowing between the empty tables. Looking across the open area, he sees a large wall of glass and, through it, the armored figure of Usi Erocas. As if she knows he is there, she turns and lifts a hand, acknowledging his presence and motioning him toward the hallway that he must use to reach them. He starts moving.

Until he hears her voice.

“Quoyah,” she calls up from the cafeteria floor. “Save me. You’re the only one who can save me.”

Looking down, he sees her standing in the center of the floor — Arabella Sterling, the woman with the aqua-colored eyes. Even from his place above her, he can see the ocean-blue sheen of her gaze, and he steps toward the railing of the walkway as if entranced by her voice.

“Come to me, Quoyah,” she says, raising one arm and extending her hand toward him. “I need you.”

“Don’t lie to me, Arabella,” he calls down to her, lifting his rifle to aim over the metal bar in front of him. “I have broken the hold of your words over me, so there is no use for you to try them again. I assume from your presence here that you are involved with this research station.”

Even from the distance between them, he can see the frown that presses between her eyebrows. She looks away from him for a moment and lowers her hand, only to bring it against her lips, a sob escaping from around her fingers. He leans forward so that he can see more clearly over the railing, the muzzle of his rifle falling toward the floor.

“I can’t believe that you would say something like that to me, Quoyah,” Arabella calls up to him, and he can see the shimmer of her tears gathering in her lashes. “I’ve missed you so very much. Why did you leave me?”

“Do not, Arabella,” he calls, stepping up close to the railing so that his body is pressed against the metal. “You cannot manipu- …”

He almost hears the noise too late, but he turns to his left and leans back, barely avoiding the slamming motion of the butt of a weapon toward his head. Twisting to one side, he feels his rifle slip from his hands and hears it clatter against the railing. He reaches for it, but it slides across walkway and drops onto the floor of the cafeteria below. Using the distraction of his weapon, he falls to one elbow, shooting out both legs to catch the advancing human at the knees and sending him to the deck. He leaps to his feet and advances, only to feel a hand on his arm and another on his shoulder. Struggling to turn, looks over at the man he has dropped, who rises up before him and punches him in the face.

He can hear Arabella laugh as her guards push him up to the railing. Leaning against the metal poles, he stares down at her, feeling himself teetering on his stomach, a growing vertigo rising in him.

“Poor, poor Quoyah,” she chuckles at him, using one hand to gather her long, blonde hair and toss it over her shoulder. “You’ve always been just that much behind me, haven’t you? You never imagined that I was more than what you had seen that first time. That I might have plans that ran deeper. Like all of you stupid aliens. You can’t imagine that we slow, silly humans could want more.”

She walks to stand under him, reaching down to pick up his rifle and then setting it on one of the tables beside her. While she is bending to retrieve his weapon, he quickly looks up and sees Usi’s back through the windows across from him. She levers away from her position and disappears from his sight, leaving him staring at the blank, black backs of the data storage machines. Sighing deeply, he moves his gaze back down to the woman below him.

“That’s how you’ve always felt about us, isn’t it, Quoyah?” She begins to pace across the floor, her hands moving in the air as if to emphasize her points. “That we humans are just toddlers in your magnificent space. That we were so backward that we had to have help from the artifacts that we found on Mars in order reach the mass relays and expand our horizons beyond our solar system. But I’ll tell you something that you don’t know: our God made it possible for us to find those artifacts. Our God led us out from Mars and into space. Our God gave us this promised land and the great bounty of these worlds, to take and shape and make our own.”

“Manifest destiny,” he says, pushing back against the men who are holding him in place.

“See, you do understand. We’ve been given space for our own. And we will take and control it.”

Quoyah swallows hard, knowing that the worst of their suspicions have been true all along. “But at what cost, Arabella? You will murder millions of sentient species …”

She laughs, a harsh, barking sound. “Unfortunately we couldn’t do anything that would work that quickly or be that effective. Instead, we’ll just have to make it impossible for the vermin races of the universe to breed. Time will take care of the rest, putting humankind in its proper place.”

She studies him for a long moment while he struggles ineffectually against the hands of the men behind him. In the end, she seems to come to some kind of decision, looking away from him to the guards who have him trapped.

“String him up,” she says, a harsh edge to her voice. “Leave him as a message to those others on the ship.”

“Arabella!” he calls as he is pulled away from the railing by one of the guards. “Arabella!”

While he watches, another human moves to a broken conduit pipe and drags a couple of meters of wire from the tube, slicing it off at one end when he feels he has enough. With quick motions, he binds the Drell’s hands together and slips a noose over his head, and Quoyah begins to struggle more passionately against the men. He feels his feet leave the walkway, and he is tipped over the railing, staring at the floor that seems so very far below him.

“Good-bye, Quoyah,” he hears Arabella call to him and then the slam of a door behind her. Her guards lift his legs and then he is falling, dropping toward the floor until the wires tighten around his neck.

Everything goes black.


	21. Chapter 21

“Lift him. I need slack on the wire so that I can cut it!”

He hears the words, not at all certain what they mean, and then feels the grip of arms around his legs. Still too disoriented to help with his rescue, he waits until he feels the pressure of the wires around his neck ease and his body falls forward without his being able to control it. He lands on the hard armor under his chest and then he is eased to the floor. Someone starts to work on the wires that bind his hands together and then tips him onto his back.

“Is he dead?” he hears a small voice ask. Calena Nyxir, he realizes, grateful that he has been found by his friends.

“I don’t know,” another voice adds. Larleed Bar. “Where’s a Drell’s pulse? We need Praz’Hali.”

“There isn’t time,” Iskra Galygin’s voice calls from above him. He assumes almost immediately that she is the one who cut his wire hangman’s noose. “We’ll have to do what we can …”

The thud of boots sounds beside him, and he hears Calena begin to speak. “If we could carry him back …”

“We can’t be certain whether there are other guards,” the Volus objects. “And we don’t have time to fight our way back through the facility. He’s either alive, or he’s dead. But there’s nothing we’re going to be able to do to change …”

“Damn it, Larleed,” the pilot barks. “You can’t give up on him now.”

His head is lifted by a gentle hand, and he feels the wires removed from his neck. Slowly, he is lowered back to the floor while his friends continue to argue above him. Eventually, he finds that he is able to take a deep breath, and he coughs heavily to ease the tension that remains in his neck.

“Quoyah!” Calena squeals. “Quoyah! You’re alive.”

He is roughly grabbed upright and pressed against someone’s armored chest. Allowing his eyelids to slide open, he looks over Calena’s shoulder and sees Iskra Galygin smiling at him. He grins back, wrapping his arms around the Asari maiden and squeezing her tightly against him.

“I appreciate the warm reunion,” he croaks against the lingering tightness in his throat, “but we need to go.”

“Yeah, sure,” Calena says, shifting away from him and rising to her feet. Larleed Bar extends an arm toward him and helps him stand, keeping one hand around his wrist until he has recovered his balance. Looking around, he locates his rifle and retrieves it from the table where Arabella had left it. He slides the charging bolt back and moves it into position, looking around at his friends.

“Mikel, Praz’Hali, and Valic took Dr. Malon and some survivors that we found back to the ship,” Quoyah explains. “Did you manage to get the data that we wanted?”

Iskra nods. “Secured, and I planted a virus in the system that’s going to destroy everything, maybe even some of the Lernaean mainframe if they’re not careful enough in their communications.”

He looks around again, ready to lead them back to the ship when it hits him. They are not all there.

“Where’s Usi?” he barks, fear gripping his heart like an icy fist.

“I …” Calena starts, looking around wildly.

Larleed joins in. “She left the data room before us. Said something about checking out this room and just took off. I was about to follow when she waved for me to stay behind.”

“If we believe she was coming in here,” Iskra says reasonably, “she must have seen Quoyah and whoever did this to him.”

He nods quickly. “And perhaps she followed them. Iskra, you and Larleed go back to the ship and get it ready to take us out of here. Calena, can you climb to that walkway?”

The Asari looks at the second level and starts toward a table. “Meet you up there,” she calls, jumping to grasp hold of a vertical support pole and pull herself, hand over hand, until she is able to swing one of her feet up to the flat edge. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he follows her example, looking down only once to see Iskra and Larleed trotting from the room in the direction of the docks.

“Which way?” the Asari maiden asks, sliding a hand blaster into one gloved fist.

He shrugs. “I was falling head first toward the deck, so I can’t be sure where they went,” he tries to tease her, but she frown fiercely back at him. “I would assume that we should be moving away from the public areas of the facility and toward anywhere that they might have a private dock.”

“This way then,” she says, motioning with her pistol and then letting him take the lead. Together, they move through the corridors, reassured that they are going in the right direction by the scoring that they see on the walls along the way. He scouts ahead ducking around and back from corners, always following the trail of debris and the scorch marks on the walls. Eventually, he begins to hear the sound of battle: the whining blast of rifles and handguns, the shouts of men trying to coordinate their movements in an attempt to dominate the interchange of bursts of lethal energy. Quoyah slides to a stop at a juncture in the hallway and looks down the cross-corridor toward the brilliant flashes created by the weapons of the combatants ahead of them. Feeling Calena’s shoulder bump into his own, he turns to press his lips close to her ear to be certain that she will hear him.

“Usi’s trapped in a recessed doorway about four meters down the hall on the right,” he explains. “If we can lay down enough cover fire, I should be able to get to her. Then we can get back out.”

“You’ve got it,” she replies, drawing her second weapon and aiming down the hallway. “How far forward?”

He shakes his head. “Just stay here. All we need is the cover.”

She nods and levers around him, and he moves so that she is on the corner. Their eyes meet, and Calena steps out into the corridor far enough so that she can fire both of her blast pistols down the hallway. As she moves, Quoyah steps across from her, striding steadily down the corridor to where Usi is pressed against the forward edge of a recessed doorway, firing at the blockade at another junction just a few more meters in front of her. He slides into the niche and waits silently for her to stop shooting. When her rifle has heated to a point that it can’t fire any longer, she pulls back and looks around, finding him standing beside her. He sees the shocked recognition that crosses her face, the ashen blue-grey that washes through her ocular stripes, and watches as her weapon falls from her hands to the floor. She sags back against the wall and closes her eyes.

“The humans were right, weren’t they?” she wonders aloud, dropping her head into her hands. “The spirits of the dead really can come back and haunt you. I just didn’t realize that it could happen so quickly.”

He laughs, tossing his rifle over his shoulder and reaching out to take both her arms into his hands. She looks at him, a bewildered sorrow swimming in her eyes, her body shaking beyond her ability to control it. Dropping her wrists, he takes her face in his hands and leans close to her, his eyes locked with hers.

“It’s not an illusion, Usi,” he says just below the sound of the fire from Calena and her opponents. “I’m still alive. Remember what Saren said about the Drell anatomy.”

He can see the look of concentration that moves into her eyes, but she still seems confused. “Drell have … they’re sturdier … I can’t remember …”

“We Drell have an inflatable sac in our necks that makes it almost impossible to asphyxiate us. I am alive, Lieutenant Usi Erocas. I am alive.”

She sobs and takes his shoulders in her hands, her fingers flexing and relaxing as they wander down his arms and over his chest. “You’re alive,” she repeats under her breath. “You’re alive.” Finally, as if she has at last assured herself that she is not in a waking dream, she pulls him against her, hugging him tightly, her grip on his shoulders relentless. He returns her embrace, continually aware of the sounds of the battle that continues in the hallway beside them.

“Usi,” he finally whispers. “We have to go. Calena’s only going to be able to cover us for a few more …”

“Yes,” she replies, pushing away from him and reaching down to retrieve her weapon. “Where? Which way do we need to go?”

“Back,” he says. “The way you came.”

She nods and steps out into the hallway, her rifle level, bursts of energy flying from its muzzle at regular intervals. In the next instant, he is moving with her, firing toward the blockade ahead of them, stepping carefully back the way he has come. When they reach Calena, he aims upward, bringing down as much of the ceiling as he can, creating a pile of rubble that will at least slow the approach of their opponents, if they choose to follow. He turns as the last bits of framing fall and leads them back the way they have come, out of the research facility, and onto their home on the Galygin’s ship.

The ramp begins to close behind them, and he crosses to the storage locker that he has chosen in the ship’s hold. While he is opening the door, the rear hatch slams shut, sending a rattling vibration through the ship, and a bundle slides from the locker’s shelf and splits open on the floor in front of him. He stares down at the argent and brass metal pieces, taking a moment to slide his rifle into place before he leans over to begin retrieving the elements of the ancient Earth weapon. Before he can touch them, Usi’s hand reaches out and gathers up the weapon’s parts, turning them over in the light and then laying each piece in the cloth that he has used to cover his outstretched hands.

“So, this is it,” she says softly. “This is the weapon that was capable of breaching my carapace and could have ended my life.”

“Yes,” he replies, watching as she places the last bit of metal on the cloth and then methodically folds each corner toward the center, fold by fold, hiding the weapon from their sight. When the pistol has disappeared, he lets out the breath that he hadn’t even realized that he was holding. He stows the weapon and slams the door of the locker closed, looking over at Usi to try to understand what she is feeling. He can see that the dark stripes around her eyes have lightened, but they are nowhere nearly as ashen as they can become when the Turian is truly stressed. Feeling a sense of relief fill him, he turns toward the access door to the rest of the ship and starts in that direction.

“Now what?” Calena asks, walking beside him. “Should we return to the Citadel and warn the Council? Are we going to destroy this facility? What should …”

“We can’t,” he hears Usi choke out behind him. “Stars! We can’t tell the Council about what we’ve learned!”

“What?” Calena argues, slamming to a halt just as the door to the corridor opens and Mikel and Larleed step through it. “You’re kidding, right?”

“That seems unlikely, Calena, darling,” Larleed teases. “Usi and Quoyah rarely are funny at all …”

“Usi says we can’t go to the Council with what we’ve found,” she bristles. “And I don’t understand why. Lernaean Corporation is threatening every species in the universe, and we’re just going to let them do it.”

“You would prefer to expose all humans to the backlash that they would suffer if the Citadel races discovered that they were going to be targeted with an extinction-level genetic attack?” Mikel asks quietly. “You would do that to me? To Iskra?”

“No, of course not,” the Asari backtracks. “I didn’t mean you. But Lernaean …”

“Doesn’t represent all humans. But they will stain us all.”

Calena frowns. “But … what justice is …”

Quoyah steps forward, holding up his hands to stop the argument between his friends. “No,” he says firmly. “Calena, we will create something that is just. We’ve done so much that is for the right here. Do you trust that Iskra has retrieved all the data and that her virus will destroy their records?” When she nods, he continues, “We’ve even met my requirement for our journey, although I never imagined that the reason would be so complicated.”

“But this,” he adds quickly, “this is why we have to keep what we have found among ourselves only: Lernaean does not represent all humans. They are a faction of the race, but even if the corporation does represent the view of a majority of humankind, there will be those who do not think that way.”

“Yes,” Mikel agrees, nodding his head enthusiastically. “We do not — cannot — all believe the same things, by our very nature as humans. And I truly do believe, Calena, that Lernaean has reflected the attitudes of only a very small portion of our population.”

“And I’m just supposed to trust you on that?” the maiden asks, a sarcastic edge to her words. “After the First Contact War? After what we found here?”

He shrugs. “Perhaps not,” he replies sadly. “But I had hoped that you would be able to judge me by your interactions with me. And Iskra.”

Quoyah sees the Asari swallow hard and look away into the darkness of the hold. He takes the opportunity to continue his argument, saying, “If we can agree that not all humans believe as the corporation does, then we should also be able to agree that it is unfair — unjust — to paint them all with the same brush of Lernaean’s duplicity. We have to give humans the chance to grow into their place in the universe as equals, not as a race that we deem less than ours, simply because a fraction of them have shown …”

“That they’re sociopathic, self-interested …” Calena interrupts.

“Calena!” Larleed barks, and she stops speaking.

“That they have not developed the breadth of understanding that our species have, simply from our decades of actual interaction with the inhabitants of the universe.” He looks around at the members of the crew who have gathered in the hold. “Do you agree?” he asks hopefully.

“If it helps at all,” Mikel adds quickly, “Valic and I have gotten the impression that the scientists we rescued are convinced that they were simply decoding the genetic maps of the species for scientific reasons, not in the development of a genophage. And if they have any suspicions otherwise, they’re not saying anything.”

“Do we agree?” Quoyah asks again.

Mikel and Larleed nod almost in unison, and Calena and Usi exchange a glance. Finally, the Asari inclines her head, and he turns to look at the Turian.

“Yes,” she says. “We agree. There is nothing to gain from bringing this information to the Council or any of the other governing bodies of our species. It’s our secret to keep guarded from the rest of the universe, and we must guard it for all our remaining days.”

Quoyah nods his acceptance of their vows, knowing that he will repeat his request Iskra, Praz’Hali, and Valic, but that moment is for the future, another time, not this now. In this now, there is only one thing to decide. And Calena voices the question before he can.

“But what now?” the Asari asks again. “What do we do?”

“We cut the head off of the beast,” Larleed Bar says, bilious venom dripping from every word. “We kill Arabella Sterling.”

“Where?” Usi inquires. “We don’t even know where she went from the research facility. How are we supposed to guess where she’s gone?”

Quoyah can feel all of their eyes on him suddenly, as if he will hold the answer to this question. He sighs, thinking back on his interactions with Arabella Sterling, his brief time of emotional ecstasy and the challenge of learning everything that he possibly could about the new person in his life. Eventually, he finds a memory that he believes will help them, and he lets his eidetic memory take hold of him …

_He looks over at her, feeling himself drifting on the ocean calm of her aqua-colored eyes. She smiles gently, running the tip of one finger across the back of his hand, her legs stretching across the fabric cushions of the lounging chair they are sharing. The manicured gardens, lush and green, spread out in front of them, the foliage rustling in the erratic breezes that wash around to lessen the warmth that filters down from the yellow sun above them. When she moves, the soft flesh of her thigh slips out of the slit designed into long skirt of her dress, and he can feel the tingling desire to touch her skin fill him once again. She sighs and wriggles closer to him, drawing one of his arms across her body so that her back is pressed against his chest._

_“Could you stay here?” she asks in a soft, caressing voice. “Could you make this your home?”_

_“Perhaps,” he whispers, trailing the fingertips of one hand over the curve of her hip. “Or you could come with me. Into space. We could find a ship for our own. I could fly it, and you could choose where we go.” ___

____

____

_“Will the Hanar release you from your duties? Could you truly be mine?”_

_“Perhaps,” he says again._

_“But here,” she says, turning in his embrace so that she can face him. He feels the pull of her blue-green gaze and leans closer, his lips within inches of her own. “It has to be here. This is the only place that I truly feel safe. I need to be here, in my home.”_

__

__

He stops his replay of the past, his eyes focusing on the amber-colored lenses that cover Larleed Bar’s environmental suit.

“That’s it then,” the Volus says, and Quoyah wonders whether he is imagining the sadness in the voice coming through the speaker. “We know where to find her. She’ll be going home.”

“Home,” Quoyah repeats.


	22. Chapter 22

Quoyah steps from the entry to the mako overland vehicle that they have rented so that they have transportation on the planet that Arabella Sterling calls “home.” Studying the deep, green forest in front of him, he quickly checks his memory for the trail that he needs to follow through the woods so that he will emerge near the gardens. He has never felt comfortable in so much flora — something in the past of his species longs for the dry, sandy vastness of deserts and the heat of barren plains. But through the transplantation of the survivors of his species to a planet of oceans, through all his missions for the Hanar, he has learned to appreciate what a seed and moisture can create in even the most unlikely of places. Taking another step away from the vehicle, he pushes up the sleeves of his jacket, enjoying the warmth of the slanting, yellow sun above him. He lets the heat soak into him, knowing that the moment he steps into the forest, all warmth will disappear.

“You’re sure about this?” Larleed asks, leaning out from the mako’s doorway. “You really want us to leave you here?”

He turns to face the Volus and smiles. “It is too late to second-guess our plan now, Larleed.”

“I realize that, Quoyah,” Bar replies, “but that doesn’t mean that I can’t hope that you’ve figured out something else to do. I don’t like sending you to face her alone. And unarmed.”

He shrugs and tugs at his sleeves again. “Unarmed does not mean that I am incapable of protecting myself. You know that.”

“When your facing _her_ , I still have my doubts.”

“If I tell you that I do, too, will you let me go?”

He hears the heavy sigh that rattles through the speaker on the merchant’s environmental suit and turns back toward the forest, studying the rustling leaves until he feels Larleed step up beside him. Turning slightly, he looks down at the Volus and reaches out to place one hand on the merchant’s shoulder. The frame of the mako shifts again, and Usi Erocas walks over to stand on his other side.

“I know Larleed is trying to convince you that there’s another way,” she says.

Quoyah looks over at her and smiles. “You’re going to try, too?” he asks.

She shakes her head, the metallic flecks in her carapace glinting in the afternoon sun. “If there had been another option that would keep all of us safe — even you — I know that you would have chosen it. And I think I understand why you want to go alone.”

“Then could you explain it to me, Usi?” the Volus interrupts, “Because I still haven’t figured out Quoyah’s stubborn, self-centered …”

“Larleed!” the Drell exclaims.

“Oh! Stubborn and self-centered,” the Turian says. “That I can’t help you with.”

He stares at her for a moment, the surprise at her comments widening his eyes and causing his mouth to gape a little. But then Larleed Bar begins to laugh, then Usi, and he joins his friends.

“I must go,” he says finally, pulling his sleeves down and securing them around his wrists. He is about to step forward into the lush green that surrounds them when he feels a hand on his arm. Looking down, he meets Larleed’s eyes.

“Be careful,” the Volus says. “I’ve had my heart broken too many times already on this trip, but I think that losing you would truly devastate me.”

Quoyah chuckles. “But you have so many new distractions in your life, Larleed. I feel that you would survive.”

“Besides,” Usi adds with a note of false sadness in her voice, “you now have a disgraced C-Sec officer to introduce to the seamy underbelly of the universe. You have other projects to occupy you in the future.”

“But none of them will be as fun if I don’t have Quoyah to report my progress to,” the merchant sighs. “But I’ll make the best of it.” Wriggling fingers at him, Larleed walks back to the mako and climbs in through the open hatch.

When the Volus has disappeared from sight, he turns to look over at Usi, who nods at him and crosses her arms on her chest. Taking that as his signal to go, he starts toward the towering trees, intent on finding the trail that he remembers from his walks with Arabella during their time together. He is about to step into the shadows cast by the fluttering foliage when he hears Usi calling to him, so he turns and waits for her to come up beside him. To his surprise, she pulls him tightly against her, hugging him for a long moment before she whispers in his ear.

“Just remember, no matter what she says or does, that there are people who care about you more here. Don’t let her take you from us again.”

She releases him and quickly turns away, and he watches her go until she, too, is lost to him inside the mako. Finally, he steps into the forest and moves deeper into the shadowed greenery.

He moves deliberately between the plants, pushing aside the surges of nostalgia that try to wash through his consciousness when he finds himself in a place that he has visited with Arabella. These woods are one of her favorite places on the large estate, a haven that she willingly shared with him. He remembers her leading him by the hand beneath the swaying trees, pulling him down beside her on cushions of moss and dead leaves, the sound of her laughter as they tried to avoid the steady dripping _plop_ of the raindrops that filtered through the green above them. This place is where he discovered the magic of connecting with another being — albeit not of his own species — and the thrilling passion that physical contact could send burning through him. For good or ill, he will always associate deep greens and the rich loamy smell of the forest with the thrilling emotions that he shared here with Arabella.

Or had believed that he shared. After the things that they have discovered about her involvement with Lernaean Corporation, he is uncertain how much of the time that they spent together was truly an intimate connection and how much was Arabella playacting.

It seems that every suspicion that Larleed Bar had about the human woman was confirmed with the information that they retrieved from the research facility, which Arabella Sterling managed for Lernaean. Hers was the office that ordered the kidnapping of Dr. Malon. Hers was the office that instructed Enzo Soie to hire the gangs to stage their battle and facilitate the abduction of the Salarian geneticist. And hers was the mind that conceived of the application of the genophage to all species “alien” to the humans.

It is hard for him to ignore the brilliance of a mind that could dream of adapting the genophage in such a way, even if it is a pathway that would lead to the extinction of any number of races in the universe. The end result might be heinous, but the mind that could conceptualize such a far-reaching plan …

He shakes himself, trying to shed the emotions that threaten to overwhelm him. Arabella Sterling’s brilliance goes wherever she does; therefore, she is a threat. To him. To his friends. To the universe.

Increasing his pace, he weaves under branches and around the brown trunks of the trees, intent on the trail in front of him. Occasionally, his concentration is broken by the snap of a fallen twig, the rustle of underbrush, or the calling of one bird to another. But in general, his only companion is the pound of his boots on the packed soil of the trail, and he suddenly realizes that his solitary way of life has come to an end. Even in his more recent past, he would have enjoyed the solitude of the hike and the eager strain of his muscles against the rise and fall of the terrain. Today, he somehow feels that he would enjoy the walk more with Larleed Bar beside him. Or Usi Erocas. Or Mikel Galygin. Any of his compatriots on this adventure.

He is no longer a being of solitude. And Arabella Sterling is a threat to this new existence.

At last the forest gives way to a manicured lawn and meticulous gardens, laid out in neat, geometric patterns and populated with plants from this planet and from Earth. Here and there, he can see brilliant blossoms of red, yellow, and violet. After the unrelenting green of the forest, the bursts of color — magnified by the glow from sun — seems almost garish, too much for his eyes to absorb. Blinking against the glare, he follows the main pathway through the raised beds, his steps more certain on the graveled walk, his determination to end this conflict with Arabella Sterling growing with every stride.

He reaches the steps to the stone terrace at the back of the mansion without alerting any guards or servants and mounts the stairs in a few quick strides. In an instant, he sees her, her long, blonde hair pulled away from her face in a sleek band at the nape of her neck, her legs curled up beside her on the wide lounging chair that they had shared, the golden flesh of one thigh peeping from the slit in the casual, tangerine dress that she is wearing. Her fingers tap relentlessly on the screen of the datapad in her hand, but eventually she looks up and sees him crossing the terrace toward her. Her fingers still and a look of frustration flits through her features and then in a moment is gone.

She rises from the lounger, crossing toward him swiftly, her hands extended, a smile replacing the angry look that had been on her face. Sliding her arms around his neck, she presses closely to him, enveloping him in the spicy, floral bouquet that is hers alone. He lets his arms hang loosely at his side, realizing that he still is not immune to the press of her softness against the planes of his body. Eventually, she leans away from him and looks into his eyes.

“They made me do it,” she lies, her aqua-colored eyes awash with tears that do not spill across her cheeks. “They threatened my life before you came in there. They said they’d kill me if I didn’t figure out a way to get rid of you.”

“Yes, Arabella,” he whispers, finally letting himself reach out for her. Sliding one hand across the golden glory of her hair, he follows the strands down until he is able to take lock between his fingers and caress the silk with small, gentle circles. Sadness suffuses him, sweeping through every inch of his body at her inability to be truthful with him.

“You’ve come back to me this time, haven’t you, Quoyah?” she asks, her lower lip trembling. “You’re here to stay? We can be together.”

“What about your plans?” he asks, his eyes locked on the strands of gold between his fingers. “What about the genophage?”

“I’ll protect you from it,” she says fervently. “You don’t need to worry about it affecting you anyway. You’re male.”

“And still you have your destiny, and I am to be an unwitting player in the deaths of millions?”

She frowns up at him, the tears drying on her lashes. “You have whatever place I make for you, Quoyah. As long as you’re with me, you’re protected. You’ll be my … my …”

“Paramour?” he suggests. “Partner? Plaything?”

She pulls away from him and walks back toward the lounging chair. “Yes, yes, but why do we have to put a label on it? We’ll be together. That’s all that matters.” She turns to him, her hands clasped behind her back, her breasts pressing forward against the fabric of her dress. He takes a step closer and wraps the fingers of one hand around her shoulder.

“No, Arabella,” he says quietly. “My life or your life is nothing compared to the vastness of the universe. And the tens of millions of living beings there. I cannot allow you to threaten that, nor can I allow you to destroy the chance for the humans to successfully integrate into the structures that we ‘alien’ races have already created throughout the universe.”

The mask of her flirtatious hopefulness falls away, and she sneers openly at him. “So what do you think you’re going to do? Get the authorities here to do lock me up? Papa’s got all of them in his pockets. Turn me over to C-Sec? And expose the manifest destiny of all humans to every other species? Take me away to jail yourself?”

He sighs, placing one hand on her head again, and shakes his own to disagree with her. Trailing his fingers across the edges of her ear, Quoyah brings his hand around to cup her cheek against his palm. “There is only one choice, Arabella,” he says finally, “and I am the only one who is qualified to make it happen.”

Her eyes narrow in suspicion, but he doesn’t give her more time to think about his words. Instead, he turns the hand that is caressing her cheek and wraps it around her throat, tightening his fingers around the column of her neck and watching the wild fear that replaces the doubt in her eyes. One of her hands comes up to claw at his wrist at the same time that he brings his other hand up to mirror the first one on the other side of her throat.

“Quoyah,” she begs almost soundlessly. “Please.”

He slides his eyelids closed, inner and then outer, to block out the sight of her purpling skin and the desperation in her face. At that same moment, he feels a burning pain pierce his side, and his fingers reflexively ease their crushing inward motion. A hand falls to his torso, and he discovers the handle of a knife protruding from his abdomen. He looks back up at Arabella, who stares defiantly back, her hand flying to the handle before he can reach it and twisting the dagger with a sharp, circular motion.

“No one,” she hisses, leaning toward him, her eyes wildly defiant, “no one takes my destiny from me. We will have what God promised us, one way or another.”

“Oh, yeah,” he hears another voice saying from behind him. “Well, bitch … manifest _this!_ ”

He hears the old Earth weapon bark, and Arabella Sterling crumples to the elegant stonework terrace in front of him.


	23. Chapter 23

Kneeling on the hard stone, he takes Arabella’s shoulders in his hands, raising her so that her face is within inches of his own, his fingers trembling while he smooths the long, blonde strands of hair away from her face. Her aqua-colored eyes meet his, and he feels her raise one hand toward his shoulder as if she means to pull him closer. Instead, she pushes weakly against him to propel herself away from his support and slouches to one side. When he feels the tension leave her body, he lowers her to the stone of the terrace and rises to his feet.

Standing above her, he sees the red stain of her life’s blood spreading against the tangerine of her dress, the bright red against the brilliant orange clashing much in the same way the flowers had just after he had emerged from the forest. Inhaling deeply, he turns toward his friends, and his arm brushes agains the knife handle that is still jutting from his abdomen. He moans in pain and staggers forward.

“Stars!” Usi Erocas curses, reacting most quickly to his pain. “Quoyah, you’ve been stabbed.”

“Mikel!” Larleed commands. “Get him to the mako. Praz’Hali, you go, too. We’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yes, yes,” the big mechanic says. “Plant your evidence. Let’s go, Quoyah.” He is lifted in the human’s arms and carried back the way he has come. The evenness of the lawns keeps him from being jolted on the trip back to their vehicle, and soon he feels the padding of a bench seat under his head. Praz’Hali leans over him, a pair of shears in his hand which he uses to slice his jacket and shirt open.

“I suppose this will require real doctoring,” he jokes with the Quarian. “Should we put in a requisition with Larleed before you proceed?”

“I regret to inform you,” the medic says tersely, “that you cannot afford me. I’ll have to waive my usual fee since you are such a problem case, Quoyah Faha.”

“Should we remove the knife?” Mikel asks, hovering behind the Quarian’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t he be more comfortable?”

Praz’Hali shakes his head. “Comfortable, no. Dead, yes. We need to leave it until we’re back in the ship, and I have my equipment. Until then, I’ll have to keep him sedated. Are you good with that, Quoyah?”

He nods and feels the jab of the needle in his arm. In moments, he becomes only marginally aware of the people and noises around him, and the throbbing in his side dulls to a barely tolerable ache. Letting his eyes slide closed, he drifts on the bustle, tiny bits of conversation breaking through the fog and imprinting themselves on his memory.

“Are you certain she’s dead?” Calena Nyxir asks, her voice nervously tense.

Larleed’s voice sighs through the speaker of the environmental suit. “Yes, Calena, dear. I’m …”

Exhaustion washes up around him, but he fights against it. There is something in this chatter that he needs to remember, he is certain of it. He listens intently.

“Is there a reason why we couldn’t tell Quoyah about all of the plan, Larleed?” This question comes from Usi Erocas. “You see what leaving him out has …”

“I know, Usi,” the Volus interrupts. “And no, I didn’t need to leave him out. But he also needed to not be able to rely on us for a rescue. He had to choose to follow through with eliminating Arabella by himself. It was the only way to be certain that he was free of her influence.”

“This is the last time, Larleed,” Usi replies. “You can’t expect us to trust you if you won’t be completely honest with us.”

The conversation settles into an argument about trustworthiness and honesty, and Quoyah lets it slide into the background, under the painful ache that continues in his side. It is Iskra’s voice that attracts his attention again, and he struggles to focus on her words.

“… evidence that we planted be enough?” Her voice is raised to carry back from the steering compartment for the mako.

Usi Erocas offers her professional opinion. “Most investigators at this level are willing to accept the most obvious explanation for any crime in their jurisdictions. That Earth weapon is covered with the fingerprints of one of the most powerful underworld bosses on this planet …”

“Thanks to my dealings in rare antiquities,” Larleed adds. “He was quite eager to handle the weapon when I told him that it was available for purchase.”

“And he was also seen leaving Arabella Sterling’s estate earlier this afternoon in a very foul mood,” Usi continues. “It’s too obvious a solution to not satisfy most peacekeepers.”

“Five to the ship,” Iskra calls back again. “Everyone get ready.”

More quickly than he might have thought possible, he is lifted in Mikel’s arms again, and he opens his eyes to see the walls of their ship surrounding him. Smiling gently, he whispers, “Home.” In the next moment, he slides into unconsciousness.

When he awakens again, he can feel the pressure of bandages wrapped around the lower part of his torso, and the pain has subsided to an aching throb. He looks around his warm, dry room, seeing that everything that he calls his own is in its proper place and that there is no one guarding his sleep. Easing himself upright, he slips from the cot, giving his body a moment to adjust to the new position. When his muscles don’t wobble in complaint, he knows that he has spent less time in bed after this injury. But still, he has been weakened, and he leans against the walls while he traverses the corridors, once again following the sound of voices until he locates the rest of the crew in the mess.

They are gathered around the big table, a deck of cards spread in hands in front of them, counters arrayed in piles based on who is winning and who isn’t. When the doors slip open, they all look up at him, laughter and cheering racing around the table at the sight of them.

“Check the time!” Praz’Hali calls out to the room. “Who has it?”

Larleed Bar picks up a datapad from the table and taps at the screen. “Closest to this time … let’s see … it’s … Iskra Galygin!”

“Ha, ha!” the pilot cries, throwing the cards that had been in her hand above her so that they drift down toward the table like so many falling leaves. Leaning forward, she drums the palms of her hands happily on the surface of the table and then reaches out to gather up the cards that she had been holding.

“She’s done it!” her father adds. “She’s bested you at your own game, Larleed! And who would have imagined that there would be money involved?”

He steps forward to the only open seat at the table — not the one that he has used in the past — and sits among his companions. “What have you won, Iskra?” he asks, curious about what he has missed by being incapacitated again.

“We were just betting on how long it would take for you to come out of your room this time,” she says, running her fingers through her two-tone hair. “And I guessed closest.”

“I must have been very close, too, though,” the Quarian says. “I believe that my time …”

“Yes, yes,” Larleed says, looking down at the datapad again. “You were within minutes of her time. Very close indeed. Almost as if you could have judged when he emerged from his room based on the effectiveness of the medications that were used.”

Praz’Hali laughs. “We all play to our strengths.”

“Have I been out that long?” Quoyah asks, shifting in his chair to try to make the bandages more comfortable against the hard back.

“No, not long at all,” the medic replies. “Not any longer than could be expected with your kind of wound. It was just something to occupy our time.”

“We’re on our way to return the scientists to their home worlds,” Valic says. “Dr. Malon and I will be returned home last, along with the few other Salarians who were at the research facility. And then … I suppose …”

“You’ll bring another generation of Salarians into the world,” Calena teases.

“I had been thinking,” Valic continues, “that perhaps the doctor might need some time to adjust … after being kidnapped …” The Salarian’s voice dies away, and Quoyah understands that he is struggling with a decision that will affect their futures.

“My ship …” Mikel begins, but Iskra interrupts him immediately.

“ _My_ ship …” She frowns over at her father, the warning in her voice clear to all of them.

“ _Our_ ship,” the mechanic compromises, “is your ship, Valic. Stay as long as you would like.”

The Salarian blinks rapidly and a little smile tugs at his mouth. “I appreciate that. I hadn’t imagined that the promise of impending fatherhood would affect me so deeply. And in the manner that it has.”

Quoyah smiles to himself, curious at the emotions that the Salarian is expressing. From everything he knows about the species, their young aren’t even raised by the parents who simply mingle their genetic codes to form the egg from which the child will hatch. Then again, the choice of parenthood connects the individuals to a duty to the future, to the knowledge that a piece of each person will continue into the millennia ahead. Hope and responsibility, bound together in the form of the next generation of a species. The thought might cause even the most eager individual to pause and question the choice.

“When we were in the mako,” Quoyah begins, “I heard you talking about planting evidence.”

Usi explains their plan to him, glossing over the argument that he had heard about leaving him uninformed. Just as he remembers, Larleed tricked the underworld leader into handling the Earth weapon that was used to kill Arabella Sterling and then left it behind with her body. He is surprised to learn that the Shadow Broker had actually wanted the man that they framed taken out of his seat of power, because the underworld boss had thought to set himself up as competition, beginning his own information empire. When he considers the options, Quoyah appreciates the simplicity of the plan and the protection that it provides for all of the people around him. As the Turian finishes laying out the detail, he finds himself nodding at her words.

“So you’re okay with this, Quoyah?” Larleed asks. “You know that it’s finished. She’s dead.”

He looks around the faces at the table, seeing concern on his friends’ features and in the ways that they are holding their bodies. Rising to his feet, he lifts his arms to indicate all of them. “I may have lost her,” he says, “but I have gained so much more.”

“That sounds like something that I can drink to,” Mikel says, standing and walking to a cupboard to retrieve a bottle of something that he has been keeping stashed for an occasion. Iskra helps spread glasses around and soon they are toasting each other.

“To us!” Mikel Galygin calls out raising his glass.

“To us!” The words echo around mess, and Quoyah feels as though a tiny thread of each individual has been drawn together into a greater whole. He lifts his own drink and tosses it back, ready to face whatever comes with this unique, mismatched group.


End file.
